


We can Make it To Tomorrow

by Bythoseburningembers



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Arguing, Epic Bromance, Everyone Has Issues, Grumpy Athos, Hurt/Comfort, I Don't Even Know, Lots of little brother jokes, Outsider perspectives are so cute, Plague, Protective Athos, Sad Aramis | René d'Herblay, Worried Porthos du Vallon, d'Artagnan Angst, everyone is dramatic, these fools
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:28:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 44,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21643678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bythoseburningembers/pseuds/Bythoseburningembers
Summary: When disease sweeps through Paris, the Inseperables are sent to the countryside for their own protection. Discouraged and exhausted, they contend with old ghosts, uncertain futures and secrets that threaten the very foundation of their brotherhood. If they make it to tomorrow, will there even be a Paris to return too?
Relationships: Aramis | René d'Herblay & d'Artagnan & Athos | Comte de la Fère & Porthos du Vallon, d'Artagnan & Athos | Comte de la Fère & Porthos du Vallon
Comments: 74
Kudos: 160





	1. The Final East Wind

TREVEILLE

When Athos entered his office that afternoon, he looked even worse than Jean felt.

And that was saying something.

His lieutenant, despite his relatively short time as a soldier, was remarkable at keeping his emotions hidden behind a smooth façade of calm. It was one of the reasons that Treveille had chosen him as a second in command.

Before the King, in court, Athos was the best at putting aside his emotions and ambitions to serve the common good. He could wrest his own feelings to heel with the cold control of a heartless man. He could fight through infirmity and illness, injury and weakness without so much as a cry of pain or whimper of protest. Treveille knew. He had seen him do all these things more than once. Athos may not have been a soldier for very long, but he was born and bred to the role.

The only time he broke that rote was when he was in the presence of his brothers. Or with Treveille. He knew this, too. Understood it for the sign of trust and confidence that it was. He was humbled to be among the few who were allowed to see Athos’s true nature, a heart soft enough to safely encase baby birds and an honorable soul burnished in the fires of a title he hated and beneath the strict guidance of a family he felt no connection too.

However, sometimes it was easier when Athos hid. Easier for all of them. Treveille could pretend then.

He watched Athos closely as he stood at attention, swaying slightly. There were dark circles beneath his eyes. His shoulders, trained since boyhood to remain erect, slouched slightly inward. Calloused hands shook just the slightest, and he hadn’t been eating, obviously. Treveille gestured to the seat in front of him without hesitation.

“Sit down, man, for God’s sakes. Do you want to collapse?” He snapped.

Athos blinked at him, owlishly, before he did collapse into the seat. He accepted the glass of cool water that Treveille pushed over to him with a nod of thanks. A breeze wafted his scent to Treveille, and he held his breath. Athos hadn’t been bathing, either. Not that any of them had the time.

“I assume today didn’t go as well as we’d hoped,” he observed. He grabbed the edge of his doublet where it was open, flapped it to get some air stirring. A dull headache had long started to pound inside his skull. He had not slept more than four hours in as many days. The oppressive heat and stink of death that clung to the city kept him by his desk until the wee hours of dawn, or else in the streets trying to coordinate.

“It went worse, actually,” Athos informed him, with a wry twist of the mouth. He set the empty cup down. Treveille wished he could pour him another glass, but his pitcher was empty. The few wells left were beginning to dry. They had long ago rationed water. “More people are clamoring at the edge of the city.”

Treveille sighed. “Idiots. Don’t they know that Paris is diseased?” The pox. Plague. Whatever it was now. One spurt of disease had led to the next. Bodies were filling graveyards faster than people could bury them. Some had begun to pile on the streets. Treveille had hoped people might leave the city, but at the same time as disease had broken out, a drought had captured the countryside. Starving families were desperately seeking asylum in Paris.

They needed plenty of grave diggers, so at least there was work.

“Most of them don’t care,” Athos replied. “It’s either take your chance with disease here or starve out there. I don’t think word has broken out that plague is within the city limits either. So they keep coming. They keep getting sick. The sick must be quarantined,” he shrugged. “So on and so forth. The King?”

Treveille nodded. “He and the Queen were evacuated this morning. I saw to it myself. They are on their way to the King’s lake house in Marseille.”

Athos’s dull eyes flashed. “The Red Guard are with them?” He demanded. Treveille snorted.

“Rochefort insisted on accompanying them himself with an entire armada of militia and Red Guards. I don’t trust the man as far as I could throw him, but I do trust that he knows his fate is tied with their majesties. They’ll be safe.”

“I wish I could say the same for Paris.”

“I agree. Are there anymore sick on our side?” Athos scratched his beard, tiredly. He seemed to sink further into himself as his eyes darted to the window behind Treveille. The sky was dark with smoke from the burning bodies.

“Marcus and Frederick fell ill today. They’ve been quarantined with the rest,” those were good men. Treveille’s fist clenched. So far, there were limited reports of survivors. Only the extremely strong seemed to be able to fight off the infection. The Musketeer’s graveyard had already added three more members to its consecrated ground. Watching those bodies as they were lowered, writing the _condolence letters_ to the families, had left him shaking and tired.

It had also cemented his final decision. “I have news for you,” he told Athos. “And you aren’t going to like it, but you must trust me.” Athos arched a brow. “I’ve written to an old friend in the countryside. General Josue Baptiste-Jean. He and I soldiered together in our youth. He’s retired now; and was gifted quite a sizeable amount of land in repayment for his services by Louis’s father. He wrote back to me.”

“I don’t see where this is going.” Bluntness. Athos must be feeling horrid, then. Treveille smiled.

“I’m sending the remaining Musketeers out of the city,” and now his commander sat up in his seat, jaw dropping in open-mouthed astonishment.

“What?”

“It’s the only way, Athos. His Majesty agreed with me, after some persuading from the Queen. We can’t lose the entire regiment to sickness. Paris is… No longer safe.”

“Our post is here. What about all the refugees spilling into the city limits? What about the sick dying in the streets? These are _our people_ , Jean _.” He only resorts to my first name when he’s very upset._ Treveille had expected resistance but not this much. He leaned forward, hoping that Athos could see the earnestness in his eyes.

“Your people need you alive.”

“We can’t abandon our post…”

“Athos, it isn’t as if you all won’t ever return,” he reminded him gently. “When this… Disease has run its course, and the damnable sun eases up, then you’ll return.”

Athos’s mouth screwed into a thin line of displeasure. He was a loyal bastard, this man, which was why Treveille wasn’t in the least surprised when he declared, tone thick with contempt: “You’re not coming.”

Treveille shook his head, smiling. “My place is here. With my sick men.” It was a death sentence. But he had abandoned men before. At Savoy. Other times. The agony of shame and guilt was worse than a thousand deaths. He was honored to share in the fate of _these_ men, these brothers called The Musketeers.

Athos crossed his arms. “I won’t leave you.”

“I’m not giving you a choice.”

“ _We_ won’t leave you.”

“What part about _you have no choice_ do you not understand?”

“Captain!”

“Athos, I don’t do this just for you all,” he interrupted firmly. “This is for the good of France, as well. Our country needs its Musketeers. I appreciate your loyalty, and believe me, if I was in your shoes, I would protest too. But this isn’t about me, or you, it’s about France.”

“To lose you would be a great loss to our country as well.”

Treveille shrugged. “I have faith that my replacement will exceed my expectations,” Athos stared at him for a long moment, evidently at a loss for words. He was an idiot, this brave, honorable man from Pinon. Treveille chuckled around the sudden lump in his throat. He would miss Athos. “Oh, don’t act so surprised. The men will follow you. You are more than capable of leading.”

“You cannot ask this of me,” Athos insisted, and there it was, that crack of emotion. Pleading. A bit of desperation in his eyes. He leaned forward, as if waiting with baited breath for Treveille to change his mind.

“If you won’t leave for your own sake, do it for your brothers,” he replied. Athos’s eyes narrowed and Treveille’s chest tightened in guilt for resorting to dirty tactics. But if it saved his friend, he would do whatever it took. This was practically a battle at this point.

Perhaps his last, and most important, one.

“You know that if you remain, Aramis, Porthos and D’Artagnan will stay with you. Are you willing to risk them catching this disease, too? Will you watch your brothers suffer slow and agonizing deaths just to prove your loyalty to me?”

Athos’s chest hitched, but he didn’t back down. “I can order them to leave.”

Now _that_ was funny. “When I tried to order D’Artagnan to take extra water rations, he scolded me for joking at a time like this and left,” he pointed out dryly, because evidently Athos had forgotten just _who_ his brothers were and how well they took commands. “I tried ordering Porthos _not_ to sell the last of his possessions to give a few extra coin to the orphans in the Court and he instead sold some of yours, too. Don’t even get me started on how many times Aramis has ignored me in the past three days. I just stopped talking to him.”

Athos looked very tempted to slap his forehead. He refrained, but the expression of complete exasperation he sported was somehow even more amusing. Treveille chuckled. “What did you expect, son? There’s a reason you all get along so well. Causing havoc and you’re not even together.”

“I haven’t seen them in weeks now,” Athos sighed, the barest hint of longing in his voice. “I hoped they might show some common sense while I wasn’t around.”

“You’ve been lying to yourself again, Athos. Besides, I distinctly recall giving you an order _not_ to let Dr. LeMay use your apartment as a make-shift surgery?”

Athos stiffened, caught. “He was good enough to stay in the city, despite the risks. He could have left with their Majesties. The least I could do was give him a space large enough to help as many people as possible.”

“And you wonder why I’m sending you away. Let me die in peace damn it.”

“That’s not funny.”

“You just don’t have a sense of humor.”

“What if some of us are sick already and just don’t know it?” Athos challenged. “You’d be sending us away, but we’d all catch the disease and fall like flies anyway, probably taking half the countryside with us.”

“Which is why I am sending you away in small groups. If one of you is sick,” a heavy sigh. “At least the loss will be minimal. Only a few of you are going to my friend’s house down south. I have also written to various mayors, governors and lords in other French towns. All of you will be well cared for, but in no danger to the whole regiment or the country.”

Athos deflated. “I… I would rather remain here. To leave would feel like…”

“Like cowardice? I know. I also know that none of you would do this of your own free-will. My Musketeers,” he stopped when his voice began to shake, affection and pride strangling him. “My Musketeers are brave, and loyal and strong and I could not be more honored to have led you all. My strength only goes so far, Athos. I cannot watch this regiment which I founded die out. I will stay here, and care for our ailing brothers. The rest of you must leave this place.”

“When I tell the others, they will refuse.”

Ten years earlier, Treveille would have laughed at these words. The men he led had some fondness for him, yes. He was their general, and he had always tried to govern with a fair and compassionate hand. Yet the fact remained that he was a general, first and foremost.

But… The Musketeers were his men. Brothers. Sons. Friends, all. He had wanted a fighting force that worked like a well-oiled machine, a fraternity strong enough to defeat any Spanish army.

He had begotten a small regiment with an even deeper attachment, one that transcended mere duty. They cared for him as much as he did them, but they cared for each other more. He could see it in Athos’s eyes, even as the man argued against it. He would leave. He had no choice. “Maybe at first. But just tell them what I’ve told you. They may not leave for their own sakes, but can you honestly tell me that any of you have the fortitude to watch your fellow Musketeer die?”

“ _Captain_ ,” Athos stressed. One hand shot out, hovered between them like a bird in mid-flight, trapped in a current of wind that was too strong to escape but too weak to propel them forward. This was the last of the East winds. It was time to settle back to Earth now, for Treveille at least. “I would rather you come _with_ us.”

It was decided, then. He stood. “I know, Athos.” He offered his hand. “Godspeed, son.”

Athos got his feet, wobbling slightly. He glanced at the hand Treveille offered, and bowed at the waist, deeply, instead. “It has been… My greatest privilege to serve beneath you,” he said softly. Treveille returned the bow.

“On the contrary, Olivier d’Athos,” he whispered. “The privilege has been all mine,” they straightened and Treveille tried to smile. If only to assuage the deep anxiety and sorrow that he saw in Athos’s guarded eyes. “Leave me, Athos. Leave this place and don’t look back,” it was his last command. Athos’s gullet bobbed once, but he swiveled on a heel and like the soldier he was, he obeyed.

Treveille listened to his footsteps vanish from his office. He stood, staring at the seat that Athos had vacated, paralyzed by hopes and dreams and fears. And pride. Pride strong enough to shake his core until tears leaked, unabashed, from tired and grateful eyes.


	2. South for the Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos retrieves the others from their own personal Hells. It isn't a fun job.

Athos waited until he had dispatched everyone before approaching the more difficult of the Musketeers. As he had suspected, the news he bore around the city to those on duty was taken with various degrees of horror, resignation or even outright defiance.

_“Athos, we can’t abandon the people of Paris!”_

_“What about the Captain!?”_

_“We die together or we mutiny separately. No other option.”_

It had taken the better part of the morning, but he had managed to assuage, pacify or even intimidate every Musketeer into leaving by nightfall. With their various locations and orders in hand, he had sent his brothers away in groups of three or four. The _Inseperables_ were not the only small fighting squad in the regiment. Many of the men had established small cliques and friendships. Treveille had seen to it that each one stayed together.

No one, if it so happened, would die without a friend by his side.

Perhaps that was why Athos waited until he had dispatched everyone else before going to his own friends. He had not seen Aramis, Porthos or D’Artagnan in weeks. He was given updates by the captain every so often, but that did not mean his friends had not fallen ill in the time since he’d seen them.

To leave Treveille was one heart breaking decision he would never forgive himself, but to abandon one of his _friends?_ Athos would sooner run his blade through his ribs. He prayed that it didn’t come to that.

He found D’Artagnan first. The young fool.

He was in the city center, pressed nearly doubled over a well. It was one of the last supplies of fresh water in the city. Six other men stood in a tight ring around the well, armed and eyes watchful in the tightly packed crowd.

The afternoon heat was stifling. Most everyone walked around with either the thinnest of clothes, or only enough clothing to be acceptable in public. D’Artagnan himself was stripped down to his thin undershirt and bries. He still looked a fearsome sight, blade in hand and dagger tucked into his left boot.

They all had handkerchiefs covering their lower faces, and with a start, Athos pulled his own into place. It would do him no good to get sick now.

Slowly, he elbowed his way through the crowd to his youngest brother. D’Artagnan noticed him immediately, and his eyes, sunken with stress, worry and sleeplessness, widened in relief. Athos allowed himself to be yanked into a firm embrace the moment he was near enough.

He patted D’Artagnan on the back awkwardly. “Hello, D’Artagnan,” he said. D’Artagnan pushed him away, holding him by the biceps at arm’s length. He looked Athos up and down, searching for something. Suddenly, he paled.

“Oh no. Porthos and Aramis. They’re not…?” His voice tapered away into a dread filled silence.

“No! No!” Athos hurried to assure him. He could have kicked himself. Of course D’Artagnan would assume his silence and abrupt appearance might spell an emergency of some kind. “As far as I know, they are well. I’m here to relieve you of duty,” he nodded at the well. “For the time being.”

“Why?” D’Artagnan demanded. A gruesome wave of heat wafted over them. Athos cringed and removed his hat, using it to fan himself. D’Artagnan removed the small water pouch tied about his waist and took a few cautious sips. Athos decided that he was not going to argue with his brothers in this damnable heat. They could protest in the shade.

“I’ll tell you when we find the others. Can you be spared?”

D’Artagnan turned to his fellow guards. “Gentlemen, will you be alright if I leave you here for now?” He asked, with enough politeness to rival a nobleman. Athos’s mouth tugged at the corners. It was easy to forget how young D’Artagnan was when one saw his hardened expressions and the Pauldron on his shoulder. Then he spoke, and his naivete still bled volumes.

“Ah, go and rest lad,” one of the oldest men snorted. “We can defend a well ourselves. You’ve done enough. We’ll make sure everyone gets their fair share of the water.”

D’Artagnan bowed his head. Athos gestured him to follow before he could promise that he’d return. D’Artagnan scowled at him, not fooled in the least, but nodded and trailed after him back through the crowd. “So, defending water?”

D’Artagnan nodded. “It’s harder than it looks. We only have six men, and already five people this morning have tried to bully their way past us. A lunatic tried to drown a diseased rat in the well water, shouting that God had condemned all of Paris to die. Had to wrestle him down, but no one could escort him to the Bastille, so we knocked him out. I haven’t moved from that spot since noon yesterday.”

Athos believed him. “You should have taken shifts to rest. The disease takes the weary quicker,” he scolded. D’Artagnan made a soft sound of agreement.

“If only we had a choice. Now, what did you want me for? Is it the King?”

“Not exactly. We have a mission. Out of Paris.”

D’Artagnan skidded to a halt. “Right _now?”_

Athos turned halfway, still fanning himself. D’Artagnan’s skin had turned at least four shades darker, but _his_ skin did not take so kindly to the sun. “Again, I’ll explain on the way,” hopefully, phrasing it like a mission would ease the choice for the others. His stomach clenched as another complication arose. “Do you know where Constance is?” D’Artagnan would never consent to leave the city without her. To his surprise, the Gascon nodded.

“Yes,” he agreed, as he started walking again. His mouth quirked into a smile as a pair of young children shuffled past, giggling. “The Queen insisted that Constance travel with her to Marseille. She left this morning. She’s safe.”

“Thank goodness.”

“So, we’re getting the others? Where’s Porthos?”

 _Where else?_ “Many of the refugees are settling in the Court of Miracles. It was overcrowded in the first place, and now with disease and the starving settling there… Porthos has been helping Flea to keep order. He sold everything he owns to help the orphans piling into the slums.”

If his younger brother was surprised by Porthos’s generosity, he didn’t show it. He merely looked thoughtful, and Athos knew without a doubt that he was mentally inventorying his own few possessions for sale. “Of course he did. You know he won’t want to leave.”

“Oh, I know,” he agreed dryly.

“And Aramis?”

“Madame Bochiere’s.”

“A _brothel?_ Please tell me you’re joking.”

Athos had some… Qualms at the moment with Aramis, but he could not deny that his self-appointed mission was a worthy one. “The prostitutes there were among some of the first to catch disease, and no one will touch them or see to their needs. Aramis has… connections there. He managed to move many of the sick to the church for tending,” he explained.

D’Artagnan nodded as the paved cobblestone of Paris started to unravel beneath their feet. The Court’s streets were more akin to a stable than actual streets. Athos did not dare look down as something squelched beneath his feet.

“Sounds like him. And what have you been doing?”

The past few weeks passed before him in a blur. Most of his days were filled with the wails of mothers who had buried their families, or the sound of flames devouring human flesh. He shuddered. “Anything I can. There are always bodies needing to be buried.”

D’Artagnan fell silent at that. He knew all too well how many bodies needed to be buried. His eyes skimmed the crowd and he nudged Athos’s arm. “Flea!” He called. The Queen of the Court looked up from where she crouched before a crying child, speaking quietly. At their call, she stood with all the grace of a cat. Despite the grime and bone-deep weariness in her face, the determination and strength shining in her eyes only highlighted natural beauty.

Athos stopped before her; and bowed his head a trite. Flea may not be a queen by birth, but she was, at least here, truly a ruler to be reckoned with. “Are you well?” He asked first.

Flea snorted, fingers tangling in the child’s hair below her as he continued to sob bitterly. “No, but who is these days? Looking for Porthos?” She asked. D’Artagnan knelt before the child; and whispered something comforting. Flea stepped away, letting him handle the situation.

“How many people arrived today?” Athos asked in a whisper. Flea shook her head.

“Dozens. We’ve nowhere to feed or house them all. It’s a mess. Porthos and I started evacuating the orphans to various churches in the area, but even they are filled to the brim…” Her voice cracked, and Athos felt pity stir in his gut. The people of the Court were innocent of any wrongdoing. They deserved to live as much as anyone.

“Listen closely to me,” he murmured. “The Garrison will be empty for the coming weeks. The Regiment has been ordered to evacuate the city to the countryside. Start taking any of the healthy you have left there, tell Captain Treveille that I sent you. It isn’t much, but at least you may be able to keep some of your people alive.”

Flea’s shoulders unwound slightly. Something like relief flashed in her eyes as she reached up to briefly press a hand against his face. “You’re a good man, Athos.”

He shrugged, uncomfortable with her gratitude. She was one of the people he felt as if he were abandoning. Her eyes flicked to something over his shoulder, and she smiled. “Speaking of good men…” Athos turned around, and the knot in his chest loosened at the sight of Porthos.

The large man was shirtless and barefoot. He had rolled up his bries so that they settled around his knees, and the stoniness in his eyes was reminiscent of a different Porthos. The one Athos had known six years earlier, guarded and quiet and full of distrust for the world. Despite his own feelings about it, Athos knew that he was not the only one who had been saved through the friendship of his brothers.

Porthos was watching D’Artagnan with something like tenderness. He looked up and met Athos’s gaze. “You two here to help?” He asked gruffly. His voice was low, gravelly. Athos shook his head.

“Here to retrieve you. We have orders,” he replied. Porthos exchanged a long look with Flea.

“Something finally caught afire then?”

“It’s alright, Porthos,” Flea said, laying a hand on his arm. “Athos has given me a way to save the few healthy we have left. I’ll start moving them today. You can leave,” Porthos’s jaw clenched and the iciness in his eyes hardened even further.

“This had better _not_ be some Noble’s whim,” he growled. “Not in the mood for it lately.” Porthos was only like this when he was at the edge of his normally bright and warm nature.

“I’ll explain when we find Aramis. Suffice to say, we’re leaving Paris for a time.”

“But…”

“Trust me, Porthos.”

D’Artagnan stood, a sleepy and trusting bundle of child pressed against his shoulder, drooling. “I couldn’t get it out of him either Porthos. Let it go. You know we’ll be back.”

“And how many will have died in the meantime?”

Flea stepped forward. “The same amount that will die if you stay. It’s not as if you have the ability to fight off disease with your bare hands, old friend,” she pointed out, with cold rationality. Porthos’s shoulders slumped.

“Wish I could have done more,” he said. Athos laid a hand on a broad shoulder, squeezed.

“You’ve done everything you could,” he assured him. “You’ve no reason to feel ashamed. But we must go now.”

“Must we?”

“I’m sorry.”

Porthos heaved a sigh and nodded. “I’ll bring your weapons,” Flea volunteered before he could say anything to her.

Porthos watched her leave, sadly, before turning back to them. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy to see you idiots are alright,” he assured them, squeezing the nape of D’Artagnan’s neck and clapping Athos on the back. His hand lingered at his spine.

Athos treasured the contact. “It’s been too long. We haven’t been separated this long since the siege of Alraise, remember?” He agreed. Porthos’s mouth twitched at the corners, some of his old light returning.

“Yeah. The night we reunited, we got drunk, eh? Think we can do that again?”

“Yes please,” D’Artagnan requested. The child in his arms stirred as Flea returned. He wriggled to get free and D’Artagnan set him down, ruffling his tight curls fondly. “You be good now, Lyrique.”

“Here,” Flea handed Porthos back his doublet, alongside the multiple knives, sword and his pistols. He gave her a nod, leaned over to press a kiss to her cheek. Flea leaned into the affection; eyes closed. “Good luck, Porthos. Go, make the Court proud.”

“I will,” he promised hoarsely. “Take care, Flea.”

She dismissed them with a wave of her hand, accepting the grubby fingers of the child beside her. Then, with infinite dignity, she swiveled on a heel and vanished into the milling crowd.

Athos huffed a laugh. Some people were born magnificent. Flea was one. “Alright, then, let’s go get our fourth,” Porthos said as he slung his doublet back on. “Oh, and come here D’Art. Give me my hug,” he slung an arm around D’Artagnan’s neck and pulled him into a smothering half-hug.

D’Artagnan returned it with equal fervor. “I’ve missed you Porthos,” Athos heard him mumble into the sweaty shoulder.

“Missed you too, pup. Athos. Don’t think you’re getting away that easy.”

“I’d never dream of it,” he drawled, before he was crushed to Porthos’s broad chest. He closed his eyes, the suffocating weight of the past few weeks draining a bit from his soul. When he stepped back, he could breathe easier.

“To the church,” he declared.

“Heard it’s really bad there. All the sick are in the churches. Half the nuns have fallen ill, and the priests too,” Porthos informed them.

“I can’t say I’m not curious as to what is so important that we have to leave Paris, but I’m also a little relieved,” D’Artagnan admitted, a half pace behind Athos. “There’s so much death here.”

“Only gonna get worse, too,” Porthos agreed. “Which church is Aramis in, pray tell?”

“Whichever is closest to the brothel,” which happened to be _Le_ _Petite Notre Dame_ , as it was affectionately known by Aramis. A small white building that sat two blocks from the brothel. Athos inhaled a sharp breath as they neared it.

The sick and dying lay on cots outside the front doors, their limp bodies flowing out of the church like sacks of flour. Most were curled into tight balls of pain. The disease attacked the stomach throughout the sickness.

Athos had seen people vomit so much blood it seemed as if they would have been emptied out by the end of it. A few nuns; stripped of everything but their head coverings and skirts, waded around the bodies with hunched backs.

The three of them stepped over the bodies cautiously, noses hidden in the crook of their elbows. The church inside was dim. A few priests moved in the aisles of sick, blessing the nearly gone or else trying to ease the pain of those still alive. They were like wraiths in the dark, carrying small candles as they knelt beside the sick.

D’Artagnan, in a move so uncharacteristic that Athos had to do a doubletake, crossed himself. Athos resisted the urge to grumble. Leave it to Aramis to choose _here,_ of all places, to practice his medicine. “How do we find him in all this?” Porthos asked, voice muffled by his elbow.

“If we hear of something going disastrously wrong, I vote we head in that direction,” he suggested dryly. Porthos glanced at him, brows furrowed.

“It’s been weeks. You two still fightin?”

“Let’s talk about this later,” he replied quickly. Neither Porthos nor D’Artagnan knew about Aramis’s dalliance with the Queen. If Athos had his way, it would remain like that. He grabbed the arm of a passing priest. The man startled upright, as if roused from a deep sleep. His eyes drooped with tiredness, red-rimmed. “Pardon me, monsieur, where are the women and children kept?”

“In the basement. You are looking for Monsieur Aramis, I presume?” At their affirmative nods, the priest sighed. “We will be sorry to lose him. He’s been a godsend. He is downstairs, indeed. One of the whores was pregnant, and she went into labor. I believe he was trying to… Assist.”

“Aren’t there any midwives here?” D’Artagnan gasped, astonished.

The priest gave him a signature _what-do-you-think_ look. “He claimed he’d done it before.”

“He has, D’Artagnan,” Porthos assured their youngest. “Don’t know the whole story, but apparently Aramis used ta help his mother and sisters in the birthin room. He knows a thing or two.”

“Was the whore diseased?”

“The baby will surely have been dead in the womb,” the priest confirmed. “But she was ever hopeful.”

“Thank you, father.” He shrugged, noncommittally, before sinking to his knees and continuing his thankless work. Athos swallowed and led the way to the basement.

“I have a bad feeling bout this,” Porthos gulped as they stepped into the dank basement. It was infinitely cooler down here, underground. Yet the smell of sickness and blood still permeated the air. Athos lowered his elbow when we saw a small crowd assembled in the corner.

A woman was quickly wrapping something small and pale in a raggedy blanket. She did not even glance at them as they walked past. The few women huddled over their sister shuffled out of the way as they neared. “Excuse me. Excuse us, please. Aramis?” Porthos called softly.

Aramis was sitting with his back to the corner, shirtless, one knee propped up and the other lying bare and blood-smeared in front of him. In his arms, a wiry, sweat soaked woman lay limp. Her eyes were glassy, but the angelic smile on her face was pure bliss. Aramis’s expression was stony.

Athos did not have to glance at the blood and fluid spreading a slow lake beneath her to know she had just been the one to give birth. Her breasts hung, heavy with milk, out of a small chemise. Aramis cradled her head against his chest.

When he met Athos’s eyes, his eyes were shattered. “My baby?” The woman murmured, softly. “Aramis? My baby?” The woman who had wrapped the bundle approached, silently.

“Here she is, Cecile, _ma Cherie_ ,” Aramis whispered, stroking the woman’s hair. The woman knelt before her sister, offered the stillborn child. “She’s beautiful, no?”

“She doesn’t cry,” the woman whimpered in his arms. She was too weak to raise them and accept the child. Aramis shuffled a bit in place, an arm coming around to hold the tiny child in one hand to her face. She stared. “Why doesn’t she cry, Aramis?”

“She’s sleeping, sweetheart,” Aramis promised. The steel in his eyes spoke otherwise. Athos knelt on his right, felt Porthos and D’Artagnan do the same. The bruises and puss-filled lesions on the woman’s face and arms bespoke of the last stage of sickness. She would not survive the day.

“Ah,” Cecile breathed. She reached out to stroke her baby’s pale cheek, laughed softly. “She is perfect. My beautiful gift from God.”

“Is there nothing we can do?” D’Artagnan whispered, agonized.

Aramis shook his head, slightly, without looking up. “What will you name her, darling?” He asked, mouth pressed close to her temple.

“Violette,” Cecile answered immediately. “Because she is lovely and pure.”

“A good name,” Porthos agreed kindly. She didn’t respond, two thin brows furrowing as she tapped at the baby’s chest.

“Shouldn’t she feed?”

“When she wakes,” Aramis sighed. He stroked a few strands of sweaty hair from her face. “Are you tired, mademoiselle?”

“Yes,” she whispered, sinking against him. Blood seeped from between her legs in steady spurts. Athos’s heart plummeted. “Yes. Very tired. Will you wake me, when Violette needs to feed? I want to sing to her,” deep brow eyes started to flutter closed. Her chest rose, fell, slowly. Aramis pressed a kiss to her temple.

“I promise, _Ma Cherie._ Rest now. You deserve it.”

“Thank you, Aramis,” she whispered earnestly. “I love my baby.”

Athos heard his brother’s breath hitch, but he did not show any other signs of sorrow. He merely rocked the woman and her dead child. “It was my honor, sweetheart. Rest now. Rest,” her last exhale was nothing but a slip of wind against his collarbone. Aramis closed his eyes, relaxed with her body as if they were one being. Athos reached out to latch unto his arm.

_Stay_ , he prayed. _Stay with us._

“Angelique,” Aramis called. “Call Mother Marianne, if she still lives. Ask her to Christian the baby Violette, and lay mother and child to rest together.”

Angelique accepted the baby gently. “You know they’ll be burned. The priest will not have whores in the church graveyard,” she informed him, bitterly. A few of the other women started to untangle the dead mother from Aramis’s arms, without speaking. Aramis let them, head lolling back to rest on the stone behind him. “I’ll bring you water to wash up,” Angelique offered.

“Save it for the sick. I’ll wash up at the Garrison,” an unsure glance. “If the Garrison even _has_ water.”

“We’ll find some for you,” Porthos promised. Athos wasn’t sure how well that would go, considering that the Garrison was empty now, but he nodded his agreement.

Aramis’s gaze lighted on them, impossibly soft and tired. “I am happy to see you, my brothers,” he whispered, as the mother was finally pried away. Sticky blood and fluids stuck to Aramis’s clothes where she had lain. He didn’t twitch a muscle, and despite the way Athos ached to touch him, they all made no move to help him up.

No one knew if the disease leaked into bodily fluids or was spread through the air or water. “Are you all well?”

“We are alive, at least,” Porthos rumbled. “How are you?” Aramis shrugged.

“Cold,” he whispered. Athos reached out instinctively to capture his hand, and as he had expected, the skin was icy to the touch.

“It’ll be warm where we’re going,” he heard himself say, as if from far away. How long had it been since he’d slept? He couldn’t remember.

“ _Where_ are we going?” D’Artagnan asked. Athos sighed and handed him the letter from Treveille’s friend.

“South. To the countryside. The Captain has a friend there that he wants us to shelter with for a few weeks.”

“Why?” D’Artagnan asked as his eyes skimmed the paper. Porthos leaned over his shoulder to scowl.

“Paris will become a giant graveyard soon,” Aramis answered, eyes far away. “The ravens will tear at the bodies in the streets,” Porthos sent their normally cheerful friend a startled glance.

“Hey, you with us ‘Mis?” He asked.

“I’m here,” Aramis whispered, sounding anything but there. “Are we all going away?”

Athos gulped. “The Captain… He will remain in Paris with some of our sick men.”

“He must be insane!”

“Absolutely not.”

“That’s a _death sentence.”_

“I know.” They lapsed into silence, interrupted only by the faint coughing and moans of the dying around them. Then, Athos bowed his head and confessed his last agony. “He wants me to take his place when we return.”

He felt three sets of eyes burrow into his head; and flushed with shame. But his brothers were ever forgiving. Porthos pressed a hand to his chest, right above his heart. “Ah, Athos,” he breathed. “It’s a good choice.”

“I have _never_ wanted command,” he rasped, gripping Porthos’s hand where it was. “I especially don’t want responsibility for leading after… In the wake of so many funerals.” D’Artagnan wrapped an arm around his shoulders, hands a steady balm on his heart, and shook him gently.

“You won’t be alone, Athos. I know it feels like it, but you’re never alone.”

He looked up. “Aramis?”

His brother’s hand twitched, the icy fingers curling painfully round his. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadows of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me,” he recited. His hand dipped into the blood over his front. “Thy rod and Thy staff, they comfort me,” Aramis exhaled a shuddering breath and let his head fall back so he stared at the ceiling.

“All for One, Athos,” he finished softly. “My place is by your side, and I will not forget nor forsake you. Now or ever.”

Athos could not speak, his gratitude too vast for words. He could only nod. Porthos sat back on his haunches. “Well boys,” he said, and his voice echoed in the cold, empty valley of death. “I guess we’re headed South for the winter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> None of my fav authors are posting because of the Holidays and I'm getting bored.


	3. They're Only Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys stop for camp to check themselves for disease. Protests and Plans are re-hatched.

They did not leave until the afternoon sun was setting the smoke of Paris ablaze with light. It would have been foolhardy to try and leave anytime beforehand, when the scorching sun might have killed their horses.

The four of them rode hard, and for once, silently. It was a bit disconcerting, especially after so long apart. Usually, Aramis would have spent at least two hours of the journey whistling or talking or teasing.

D’Artagnan, if not being harassed by ‘Mis, also had a mischievous streak. He was known for flinging rocks or small flowers at one of them when they weren’t looking. Porthos and Athos, the true adults of the foursome, just listened and reacted accordingly. Or, Porthos liked to race his horse. But that didn’t count as shenanigans. At least he was an adult about it and only cheated when he was bored.

Athos never did anything.

However, this time, they simply let their horses gallop. The only sound between them that of their beasts panting. Athos did not even call for them to stop. He merely raised a fist when the first slivers of moonlight were beginning to peek through the clouds. Porthos could hear the soft rustle of moving water nearby. His mouth watered. Any water in the Court had been dirty and he’d been forced to sieve the rocks and dead insects out of it before swallowing.

Cool, fresh spring water sounded like a dream right about now. “I know it’s been awhile,” Athos said quietly, as they dismounted. “But surely we all remember our roles?” Porthos rolled his eyes and slung his bedroll over one shoulder.

Aramis hefted his musket down. “Of course, Athos,” he said, with none of the sarcasm or jesting he usually would have employed. D’Artagnan didn’t deign to answer. He merely trotted into the forest to collect firewood. Aramis followed at a leisurely pace to hunt them some dinner. Porthos started unpacking their provisions, knelt to make a fire. Athos vanished to scout out the area and set alarms.

_I wonder how The Court is right about now_ , Porthos fretted, as his hands immediately fell to old habits, dusting out their bedrolls and settling them on the ground. When he had left his former home to become a Musketeer, it had been with relief. He was leaving an old life – a painful, limited one- behind. He would make something of himself.

Yet watching the people he had grown up beside die had been… It had been more painful than he’d ever imagined. Like it or not, he was a Court-born gutter rat. Those were his first people, his original family and they had withered away with the stoic resignation he’d always known. The poor often gave up before anyone else. What use was there in fighting the inevitable?

Still set his blood ablaze. Had his mother felt the same, when she was dying? Had she not even _fought_ the disease? Had she not even cared to live anymore, for herself or her son? 

D’Artagnan returned first with an armful of firewood, which he dumped on the ground and knelt beside, digging a small pit. Porthos studied his littlest brother. Like them all, evidently the lad hadn’t slept. He was only upright because of his own stubbornness and adrenaline. Though they had stopped off at D’Artagnan’s rooms before leaving at Athos’s insistence. They had not gone to the Garrison. Which was good. If Porthos had been able to look into the eyes of the man who had believed in him when no one else had – he would never leave. Besides, apparently the Court was soon to be filing into the empty Garrison anyway.

They had split the minimal water they had to wash, switched clothes if they could, and packed a few provisions for the journey, but D’Artagnan still looked… dirty. As if the death of the city clung to him, a parasite unwilling to release its host. An ember sparked on the ground. D’Artagnan blew on it, gently, coaxing it to life.

Porthos groaned as he settled next to the budding flames, snatching off his sweat-soaked boots and lying them next to the fire. D’Artagnan wrinkled his nose. “Those will definitely need to be cleaned before we get to wherever it is we’re going,” he gagged.

“So delicate, pup,” Porthos replied, with a small smile. Felt good to tease one of his brothers again. In the first few days, he had missed them each with an ache that had physically hurt. “Got anymore scratches on that fancy Pauldron of yours?”

“No one these days seems to mind the uniform,” D’Artagnan grumbled in agreement. He tossed his own boots near the fire, and Porthos nearly gagged.

“Oi! You’re talkin about _my_ feet!? Did something die in your boots, D’Art?” The lad slowly peeled away his stockings, and Porthos inhaled a sympathetic breath at the torn and bleeding skin of his feet. “Ouch. You might want ‘Mis to take a look at that,” he said. D’Artagnan nodded.

“I went barefoot most of the time,” he explained. “Didn’t have my shoes on when a mob tried to storm the well. It didn’t go well,” he cringed, prodding at a large cut along the arch of his foot.

“It looks like it wasn’t so much a mob as a herd of wild boars,” Athos observed as he and Aramis exited the forest, quiet as ghosts. They were carrying between them a long stick, from which hung four large trout and several birds. Porthos smiled as they set it down and Athos handed out the rations for each of them to skin.

Aramis, his hair still dripping from the impromptu bath Porthos assumed he took, knelt beside D’Artagnan. If the pup looked like death clung to him, Aramis looked like death warmed over. “No one touch the meat yet,” he cautioned. “I’m going to check you each for signs of the disease.” Porthos’s heart skipped a beat. He had spent so long caring for those with the sickness that it had not occurred to him that he could get it himself.

“Athos, hold a light for me… Yes, thank you… Open your mouth D’Artagnan,” Aramis held his chin in between practiced fingers, leaning in close to study the roof of his mouth by the torch Athos held up behind him. “Any itching beneath the arms? Stomach pains?” A shake of the head. “You’ll live, brother. I’ll help bind your feet when I’ve finished,” Aramis finally decided.

“What would you have done if I had had the disease?” D’Artagnan wondered darkly.

“Let me answer that question when I have deduced that Porthos and Athos are safe as well. Porthos,” he tipped his head back, felt Aramis’s grip tickle beneath his chin as he peered into his mouth. Then Aramis stepped back.

“No stomach pains or itchin pits for me either, ‘Mis,” Porthos assured him before he could ask. Aramis stared into his eyes a long moment, searching for any hints of a lie, before he nodded and sat back.

“Good. Hold the torch for Athos, then.”

“And who is going to check you?” Athos asked as he passed the flame for Porthos to hold. Aramis shrugged.

“I cannot get the sickness, _mon ami.”_

“What? Why not?”

“I had it as a child and survived. Or else I wouldn’t have lasted more than twelve hours inside that church without contracting the sickness,” a heavy sigh. “I should be the one to stay behind at the Garrison. Not the Captain.”

Porthos couldn’t imagine another few weeks without all his brothers by his side. Besides, they all knew why surrounding Aramis with dead bodies was a bad idea. He swatted him on the back of the head affectionately. “You ‘ave enough to deal with. No use addin more ammunition to your damned hero complex,” he said. Aramis snorted, and stepped away from Athos with a smile.

“We’re all safe. Thank God,” he breathed. A knot in his chest loosened. Porthos shared a grin with D’Artagnan.

“And if one of us _had_ been infected?” D’Artagnan pushed as they all took up their normal positions around the fire. Daggers flicked into the light as it slit through skin and fur and scale to the meat.

“I would have shot you in the head rather than make you suffer another few days in agony,” Aramis replied, not looking up. Yet the way his eyes shone like flint in the light proved that he wasn’t joking. Not at all.

None of them spoke again after that.

* * *

Porthos spent a fitful night on the ground, drifting in and out of sleep. Behind his eyelids he saw the sunken eyes of the starving, heard their whimpers at every brush of wind across his forehead. Then, it got really bad.

Sometimes, he heard his mother. Her mouth covered with spittle, the blurred mutterings of incomprehension she let out. Then, Athos would take her place. Aramis. D’Artagnan, their faces, gaunt and lifeless, covered with puss sores and eyes swollen shut by their own tears. See the resignation and despair in their eyes, and it felt like his guts were being torn out of him.

_Goodbye Porthos._

He would wake, a breathless, silent scream trapped in his throat and tears pooling behind his eyelids. If Aramis’s tossing, D’Artagnan’s restless murmurs and Athos’s stone-stiff body were any indication, they, too had barely slept through the night. They had each suffered, separated only by space, pride and low spirits. By the time the dawn sun rose, they hauled themselves upwards by unspoken consensus.

Athos, miracle of miracles, broke the silence just as D’Artagnan poured water over the last smoldering’s of the morning fire. He was staring at the horizon, a landscape of rolling hills, squinting into the early sunlight. “We should reach the homestead of Monsieur Josue by mid-afternoon,” he predicted.

Porthos looked up. “What do we know 'bout this man, anyways?” He demanded.

Athos shrugged. “Only that he is the Captain’s close friend and confidante. He used to be a soldier, an exemplary one, by the Captain’s own admission.”

“A soldier the Captain hasn’t seen in near ten years,” he pointed out. “He could have changed.” Athos’s mouth screwed into that thin line he got when he was getting impatient or wanted to hit someone.

“What do you think he’s going to do, Porthos? Eat us?” He asked, and the sarcastic bite didn’t deter Porthos in the least. He crossed his arms defensively.

“I’m just saying I don’t know if we should go in ready for a joyful time.”

At that, Aramis barked a laugh devoid of humor. “You think we’re going to be joyful anytime soon? You’re more an optimist than I, _mon ami_ ,” he scoffed.

“Your hackles ain’t raised at the idea of staying in the home of a complete stranger?” Porthos challenged. He would have thought that Aramis, at least, would see his point. His oldest friend sighed and snatched the hat from his head, running a hand through tangled curls.

“What more can be done to us that hasn’t been done already, Porthos? Besides, where else can we go? Paris will soon be deserted or filled only with corpses. I assure you we won’t be welcomed where I grew up. We could stay at Pinon, but I’d rather not drive Athos mad. Or maybe we could join the King at his lake house in Marseille.”

“No,” Athos decided immediately, glaring at Aramis. He gestured to their leader as if to say _see what I mean?_

“But Rochefort would have us poisoned in a few hours. We have lived off the land before, but eventually summer storms will come. This area will be flooded, and we will need shelter. Face it, Porthos, we are as much refugees as the people storming into Paris. _We have no choice.”_ Porthos surged to his feet, recognizing the note of resigned despair that he was so damned sick of hearing.

“That isn’t true!” He hissed. “We can go back!”

“To _what?!”_

“Back to the city we promised to protect!” _Back to the Court. To my friends. To the people I abandoned once already._

Aramis shuddered. “That is foolhardy and will only lead to death.”

“I’d rather die as a soldier than live as a coward.”

“And what about _me,_ Porthos?” Aramis blinked rapidly. “Will you make me watch as you each die, one by one, while I stand aside unable to save you or join you in death? Or would you rather I murder you each to save you from pain, and once again live as the sole survivor of a massacre?”

Porthos’s breath caught in his throat at that image. Aramis wandering helplessly among the dead in Paris, his hands slick with their blood, his eyes full of such agony and despair that he was barely standing. Porthos couldn’t do that to his brother. Not again. It would be more unforgivable than whatever cowardice that bastard Marscac had ever done.

“Enough,” Athos stepped between them, hands raised in a calming motion. “This arguing doesn’t get us anywhere. We’re going to follow Treveille’s last orders, no matter where they take us.”

“I have to admit some apprehension about that,” Aramis sniffed.

“Like you said, we don’t have a choice,” Athos drawled darkly. When he looked up past the brim of his hat, his dark eyes caught the sun. Like the surface of a calm lake. “No matter what, we’re going to do this together. All for one, remember?”

D’Artagnan stepped into their circle, an indivisible chain. “And one for all.” Usually, the Musketeer moto would have been enough to hoist his spirits. To give him a sense of peace and purpose, but the shrieks of the Court were the only echo in his soul now. He couldn’t stop hearing them and they proved that the Musketeer moto… It was just words. That was all. Porthos shook his head.

“Not sure how well those words’ll protect us if we get into trouble this far out,” he murmured, swiveling on a heel. He mounted his horse, face burning when he saw the shock on Athos and D’Artagnan’s faces. Aramis’s shoulders just sagged even further. Their sorrow made him angrier.

“Well, c’mon then. If we’re going, then let’s go!” he snapped. The others obeyed. As D’Artagnan walked past, he squeezed Porthos’s knee.

“Don’t give up, Porthos,” he told him, hope still alive in those dark, young eyes. Porthos scowled.

“ _I_ ‘aven’t given up. I’m just the one who has to live with the consequences of someone else giving up for me,” he declared.

Aramis leaned against his horse’s neck. “Someone giving up for you,” he asked, a knowing glint in his dark eyes. “Or _you_ giving up on someone else?” Porthos flushed as something inside him panged.

“Shut up, Aramis,” he could only growl, as the pain lodged in his throat.

Aramis nodded as if that answered his question, which it didn’t, and kicked his horse into a trot.


	4. Apple Orchard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys arrive at their countryside destination and discover the generosity of their hosts. Oh, there are also a lot of apples.

The home was larger than Athos’s estate in Pinon.

Which was saying something. The house was at the end of a long road of willow trees that sprouted from the ground and spread whispy fingers to the travelers below. It was brick, a wide sprawling building that reminded Porthos of his father’s own small mansion. Even before they made it to past the trees, Porthos heard the shrill shriek of children playing and dogs barking.

The air smelled of warm apples and cotton. The sun, though still overbearing, was covered by a thin layer of clouds and lessened by cool winds with a hint of sea breeze on their coattails. Porthos inhaled deeply, shared a glance with Aramis. This was the home of a _very_ wealthy man. How had a mere soldier afforded all this?

“Er… Should we announce ourselves?” D’Artagnan asked, sounding as astonished as they felt. The horses halted mid-step as the hard leaves and twigs of the forest turned instead into soft grass. Large heads dipped, already nibbling at the yard.

“To who?” Despite the yelling, Porthos could not see anyone nearby. As if his question had summoned them, four women suddenly appeared from the trees to the far left, laughing. Between them Porthos saw small barrels. They had been picking apples, apparently.

Athos hopped from his mount as one of the older women spotted them. Her forehead crinkled for a moment, evidently confused, before her face brightened. She set the bucket of apples down and headed their way. As she neared, Porthos noted the sheen of silver hairs along her temple, stark contrasts to the auburn curls that swayed around her shoulders.

Like most women he’d met outside Versaille, she wore no make-up, but the dust covering her sun-tanned face did not dull the beauty of her friendly smile. When she grinned, small freckles peeked out from her cheeks. “You must be the Musketeers!” She cried.

Porthos, Aramis and D’Artagnan stepped from their mounts and bowed as Athos kissed her knuckles. “Yes, madame. My name is Athos of his King’s Musketeers. These are my men, Porthos, D’Artagnan and Aramis. Is there a monsieur Josue here?”

She giggled at Athos’s grand entrance, which usually happened. She dipped her head. “You are most welcome, gentlemen. Yes, this is the home of my husband Josue and I. My name is Clara. You’re right on time. My sisters and I just finished picking apples for tonight’s desert,” Porthos’s stomach growled. Clara chuckled.

“Oh, but you must be tired from your journey! Jean told us that such terrible things have been happening in Paris, God help us all,” she said. Porthos felt rather than saw D’Artagnan nudge Athos in the side.

 _Jean?_ He mouthed to them. Aramis shrugged. Porthos smiled. It was indeed odd to hear the Captain’s first name used so casually, but at least this Clara seemed nice enough. “My husband is around the house, if you’d care to meet him. He’s teaching my youngest grandson how to shoot a pistol. But if you’d rather rest…”

“We wouldn’t dream of not meeting your husband before partaking in his hospitality,” D’Artagnan interjected, with his charming politeness. Clara’s eyes lit on him and instantly widened in that way that women had with D’Artagnan. The way that said he would be getting extra cake at the dinner table and weren’t his dimples just the cutest thing _in the entire world?_

Spoiled little bugger.

“It is our honor to host such brave men, and we owe Jean so much already. Please, follow me,” she invited, waving them forward. She led them around the side of the house. At each step, the screaming neared until Porthos saw a large tree beside the house, shading half of it with long, strong branches. From one, someone had tied a swing to the very top eaves. A gaggle of children were assembled near there, swinging and laughing as they chased one another.

Further away, a man was hoisting a musket onto its stand, pointing at an apple in the distance. Porthos couldn’t resist smiling. Beside him, Aramis’s eyes shone a bit. He loved children. “You have a wonderful house, madame,” D’Artagnan said.

“Thank you. We have been very blessed,” Clara agreed. She cupped her mouth. “Josue! Our guests are here! Oh, for goodness sakes,” she turned to them with an exasperated but affectionate huff. “He’s getting old, my husband, and his hearing is nearly gone. He’s going to lose the rest of it if he keeps firing those guns of his. Maybe _you_ gentlemen can talk some sense into him, soldier to soldier. Josue!”

“Granddad! Grand-mere is calling!” One of the girls added from the swing set. The man startled upright; and turned.

Porthos nearly stopped. The man before him was taller than them all, a lanky, well-built man for his age. His face, also tanned, split to expose a smile as delighted and genuine as his wife. His hair had gone _completely_ gray, however.

Porthos’s eyes slid down. His heart panged. The man was missing his left leg from the knee down. In its place was a large log, polished and strapped to his leg. He hobbled slightly as he turned around to face them. “Ah! I was beginning to worry you’d never arrive,” he boomed.

The child next to him, a lad no more than ten, jumped, the shaking pistol in his hands nearly dropping. “Grand-pere!” He yelled accusingly.

“My apologies, Daniel,” he made no attempt to lower his volume. Clara rolled her eyes heavenward, a silent prayer of patience on her lips. “Here, put the safety back on… Yes, yes, that’s a good lad. Now go put that thing back in its trunk and go grab your brothers. Tell them to get these gentlemen’s mounts secured in the back,” at Daniel’s nod, he reached out an arm. Clara dipped beneath it with practiced grace, helping him to stagger forward.

The staggering did nothing to dim his delight as he shook Athos’s hand hard enough to make the man shake. “Gentlemen! I am Monsieur Josue Baptiste-Jean. You are all most welcome to our home,” he turned to their leader, and his eyes brightened. “Oh, you must be Athos! Jean has mentioned you with special fondness in his letters.” Porthos grinned at D’Artagnan. It was obvious to the rest of the regiment that Treveille had a special kind of respect for Athos. That fact was only shocking to the man in question, who looked momentarily as if he had been dunked in freezing water before regaining his composure. 

“He honors me,” he stammered.

“I doubt it. Hard thing it is, to earn Jean’s approval,” Josue snorted. “And… Let me guess,” he narrowed his eyes at D’Artagnan with a gaze sharp enough to pierce armor. “You’re a young one. Good-looking. I see you’ve already entranced my wife. She looks just about ready to feed you like a stray duckling. D’Artagnan, I take it?”

D’Artagnan accepted the handshake, nodding. “Is that how the Captain described me, a stray duckling?” He asked dryly.

“It suits you,” Porthos snickered.

“His words were more along the lines of a budding genius swordsman and reckless loyal fool, but I’ve condensed his words a bit. Jean says things without saying them, you see?”

“We do,” Aramis agreed softly as D’Artagnan blushed.

“You, sir, are handsome enough to make an old man like me have immoral thoughts,” Josue continued, studying Aramis. His friend winked.

“Touché, monsieur, but what might your wife think?”

“You two can _have_ each other,” Clara drawled. Athos hid a smirk behind one hand as even Aramis looked astounded. Porthos didn’t bother to disguise his own bark of laughter. _Yeah,_ he decided. _I like madame Clara._

Josue threw his head back and laughed. “You and my oldest son will get along splendidly. Absolutely _splendidly!_ Jean tells me you’re the greatest marksman in all Paris,” Aramis hitched his thumbs into his belt, smiled ruefully.

“I would never dream of accepting such a title,” he demurred.

“He’s the best marksman in all _of France_ ,” D’Artagnan corrected. Aramis gave a start, as if he didn’t know this fact, while Athos and Porthos nodded.

“I was a marksman once,” Josue slammed a fist to his chest proudly. “Pretty good, I’d say. It’s how I lost my hearing. My leg, too, but that’s beside the point. Which means you must be Porthos,” brown eyes swept over him.

“I have to say, the stories Jean has told me of your honor and determination are feats worthy of Gods. I grew up in a place _like_ the Court of Miracles,” Josue’s eyes hardened for a second. “We’ll have to compare notes.”

Well, wasn’t that interesting? Porthos nodded. “It’d be a pleasure, _monsieur.”_

“Please, please, call me Josue! I’m getting too old to feel comfortable being _monsieur_ anymore. I imagine you Musketeers are weary from your journey. Come, come, I’ll show you where you’ll be staying. Can I get you any refreshments?”

“I’ve already sent for cider and some apple tarts,” Clara informed them.

“Apples, apples, apples… All we eat are apples,” Josue mock grumbled to them as he started walking behind the house, supported slowly by Clara. “It’s enough to drive a man mad.”

“No, thank you. We only appreciate your willingness to house us,” Athos said. Even his normal stoicism had started to fall away. “This is an impressive piece of land.”

“Isn’t it? I could never have dreamed I might spend my last few years here as a child, but,” a shrug. “Good deeds beget good awards, eh?”

“How many rooms are there?” D’Artagnan asked curiously.

“Too many,” Clara sighed. “There are five guest rooms and two parlors. Ten rooms in all. It’s more than we know what to do with! I grew up on a tiny farm outside of Lorraine. We barely had two rooms, much less ten.”

“Which is why we invited the entire family to stay with us,” Josue agreed. “Clara has two sisters. I have four brothers. Two of whom share no blood with me, but we served together for many years. It is our friendship that Jean said inspired his vision of the Musketeers. You know what kind of bond I’m referring too, I assume?”

Porthos smiled as Aramis clapped him on the back. Athos and D’Artagnan inched closer to them, and the four of them exchanged a glance. “Yes, we do,” they replied in unison.

“We have four children as well, all grown and married now. They live nearby, and between all of us, there are always nearly fifteen children here. You’ll meet everyone tonight, at dinner. We’ve no servants, but we work the land as a family.”

“I grew up on a farm in Gascony. What do you grow?” D’Artagnan wondered.

“Apples,” Clara giggled. “And all that can be made with them. Cider, brandy, pie, lotion, soap…”

“You can make _soap_ with apples?”

Clara nodded. “I’ll have to give you some to try. Ah, here we are,” she said as they stopped in front of a small barn. It was separated from the house, just far enough to afford some privacy without completely isolating them. The speckled gray walls shuffled as the wind blew through the cracks. A willow tree bled small leaves onto the roof.

“Forgive us, gentlemen, we’d love to give you rooms inside the house, but since we have so much family living with us…” Josue began apologetically as they walked inside. Porthos looked up into high rafters.

The barn was huge, and some work had been put into making it look more like a home. The downstairs had dirt floors, but in the middle of the room were four large cushioned chairs assembled around a table. To the right, shelves held plates, cups, pans and candles. Jarred apples and cinnamon had also been laid out.

To the left, a small stove was pressed against the wall, alongside a stack of blankets and water canteens. In the middle of the room, a ladder extended to the rafters, where Porthos assumed four beds had been set aside. He inhaled the sweet scent of hay and cider.

“It’s perfect,” Athos assured Josue. There was a deep contentment in his eyes that Porthos had not seen in a long time.

“We tried to make it comfortable,” Clara said, looking worried. “The beds are up the ladder. If you’d like, we can drag more furniture or rugs out…”

“No need, _madame_ ,” Aramis promised, squeezing her hand. “This is more comfortable than many a place we’ve been housed. We are forever in your debt.”

“Don’t you need to store animals here?” D’Artagnan asked.

“Oh, we tried!” Josue laughed. “And we discovered that we are _not_ meant for animal farming. We can barely keep our one goat alive, and that only because she frolics about with the dogs. No, no, this space is usually empty. There is a fresh stream in the back, if you have need of it,” he told them.

Porthos hadn’t been submerged in cool water in weeks. His skin itched, eager for a chance to finally feel _clean._ “I’ll have one of the children bring you soap and your belongings,” Clara guaranteed them. “Until then, please make yourselves comfortable. I know it has been a long, hard few weeks for you four. You are more than welcome to join us for dinner, if you are not too tired.”

“She’s staring at you, D’Artagnan, because you look like you aren’t well fed,” Josue chuckled.

“We only give him scraps, seeing as how he is a stray duckling and all,” Athos drawled. D’Artagnan sent him a heated glance; but smiled at Clara.

“You’re very kind, madame Clara. Thank you.”

“You are more than welcome. If any of you have need of anything, feel free to shout or join us at the house. Someone is always up and about there,” at their nods, she flashed a last beaming smile and helped her husband to totter back into the sunlight, closing the door behind them. A bird chirped from the rafters above as a fresh breeze filtered through.

“I like them,” D’Artagnan declared, already striding toward the ladder.

“They’re good people,” Aramis agreed warmly. He pressed Porthos’s shoulder as he passed and started to set his weapons down on the table. “I wonder if there’s a church nearby,” he pondered.

“Aren’t you _tired_ of churches yet, Aramis?” Athos drawled, as he sunk into one of the chairs. Aramis shook his head.

“Never, my friend. Besides, I need a church where there are no dead milling the pews. To pray for Cecile and her baby Violette,” he said quietly, fingering the cross on his chest, eyes downcast.

“We could go ask,” D’Artagnan suggested from above. “I want to explore the area. I haven’t seen a property this large since we went to Pinon. These beds are comfortable!” A sharp thud as he probably threw himself into one.

Athos sighed. “You go ahead, ‘Mis,” Porthos told his friend. He would never fully understand Aramis’s staunch need to seek out a higher power in times like these. Seemed to him that only people could solve the problems that were created mainly by people. But Aramis got such a sense of comfort from the church that he never begrudged him the time. “I’m gonna stay here and take advantage of that apple soap. Just… Do me a favor, aye? Take a weapon with you.” Aramis cocked a brow.

“Into _a church?”_ He squawked, indignant.

Porthos didn’t relent. “We still don’t know this area well. We didn’t run from death in Paris just to meet it out here,” Aramis opened his mouth to protest, so Porthos leaned forward.

“Do it for me, Aramis. Please.”

Aramis exhaled an explosive breath; but did pick up his sword from the table. “Alright, Porthos. C’mon, stray duckling! We’re off to the big house!” He called.

 _“Please_ don’t start calling me that,” D’Artagnan begged as he slid down the ladder to hop into step beside Aramis. Like a stray duckling. “It’s bad enough you all still call me puppy.”

“The Captain’s words, not mine.”

“You’d better thank Porthos for making you bring a sword, because otherwise, I’d kill you myself.”

“Oh, you’d try. All I would need to do is smudge some mud on your Pauldron and you’d faint of indignity,” Porthos listened to them bicker until their voices faded away. He leaned back in his chair, scrubbed a hand over his eyes.

“What?” He asked, without opening them. He could _feel_ Athos staring.

“A conversation for after we’ve washed, I think,” Athos decided, standing. There was a slim shadow loitering by the door. “Thank you,” he said as the youngster, no more than eleven, scuttled into the room. He handed four bars of soap to Athos, eyes wide. A second later, two other boys walked into the room carrying their belongings.

“You can set it all down there, lads,” Porthos told them, gesturing to an empty corner of the room. “We’ll sort it. Thank you.”

“You’re soldiers for the King?” The youngest blurted, excitedly. “Do you have any stories?”

“Bertrand!” The older boy scolded.

“No, no, it’s fine,” Porthos waved him off, with a smile. “We _are_ soldiers, Bertrand. And we’ve plenty of stories. Maybe we’ll see you again later, eh? Then we’ll tell you all the most scandalous tales right outta Paris,” Bertrand looked as if someone had just given him a weeks’ worth of sugared pears.

“Ha ha! Until then, monsieur!” He crowed, as he fairly skipped from the room, followed by a gaggle of his excited brothers.

“You’ve just given Aramis another excuse to brag about himself,” Athos groaned.

“In stories, he only ever talks about us, and you know it. Don’t know what kind of fightin you two are at this time, but don’t let it cloud your memories,” Porthos warned. Athos and Aramis often butted heads, their disparate personalities explosive when placed together and under stress.

Yet they were also some of the most sensitive, forgiving, loyal men Porthos had ever known. Their fights barely lasted a week, in his experience, devotion to one another overcoming any disagreements. He wondered what this one had been about to last so long. Aramis must have done something especially stupid, or Athos was just being close-minded.

Athos dipped his head in acknowledgement.

“Of course. Forgive me.” He didn’t look too contrite. Porthos had half a mind to clobber them both over the ears. Maybe later.

“Well, then c’mon,” he waved a hand over his shoulder, snatching his bag of meager belongings from the ground. “I’m ready for a bath.”


	5. Legacies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos and Athos have a moment alone to talk about inspirations, legacies and they might be a little sleepy after. Maybe just a little, though.

When he and Athos returned from the stream, beautiful afternoon light was spilling into the barn, illuminating even the tiniest strands of dust and pollen in the air.

Porthos inhaled deeply, and promptly sneezed as he eased his way up the ladder after Athos, barefoot and a tiny sliver of soap still held in his hand. A rivulet of water dripped down his back, but he was so content it hardly mattered.

“D’Artagnan wasn’t wrong about the beds,” Athos reported as Porthos popped his head over the side. He cocked his head. The upstairs loft held a small bookshelf and four straw mattresses covered with abundant sheets and blankets. The beds were spread lengthwise, adjacent to the sloping ceiling.

It was cozy. Warm. Porthos collapsed unto the bed nearest the ladder feeling the smoothed and soft hay ease his aching back muscles. He huffed a luxurious sigh. “That apple soap is a Godsend,” he murmured. Athos sat down heavily beside him; his back pressed to the wall beside Porthos’s bed.

His doublet hung open and spots of water clung to his chest hair. The bags beneath his eyes bulged as he ran a hand through damp curls. “So? Is this place so bad?” He asked. Ah. So this was he talkin too Athos had been meaning to give him. Porthos sat up and crossed his ankles.

“To be decided,” he harrumphed. “Don’t judge a place afore you’ve really gotten into the meat of it, eh?” Athos should know this lesson. He, too, had grown up in what might have seemed a paradise from the outside. Inside, however…

Athos was studying him closely. “You didn’t sleep last night.” Porthos snorted.

“Did any of us?” He asked darkly. Athos folded his hands over his belly. Neither of them looked at each other, but Porthos had not felt so connected to another human since he had taken leave of his brother’s weeks earlier.

“You don’t think we should have left Paris,” Athos finally blurted. Porthos could have smiled, if the topic weren’t so bitter. Athos tended to speak in understatements or sarcasm, dancing around the point like the Nobleman he had been bred to be. Yet when he was _really_ tired, he resorted to bluntness like the rest of them.

“And you _do?”_ Athos shook his head.

“I know my reasons. What are yours?” Porthos surged upward, fist clenching at his sides.

“It’s _Paris,_ Athos,” he growled. “I grew up on those streets! We’re Musketeers! We should never have abandoned…”

“Abandoned _who,_ Porthos? All the Musketeers are scattered across the countryside. Except for a few, and they are all but lost to us. Their Majesties are safe. Soon water will run out or the disease will kill anyone left in the city. Who exactly would we have protected?” Athos asked, as if he was talking about nothing more than the weather. Porthos felt heat sting his eyes.

“We should have done more!” He gritted out between clenched teeth. Athos glanced at him, sympathy in his eyes.

“Like what, _mon ami_?” He asked quietly.

Porthos’s mind flipped through all he had done. All he had sacrificed and sold and fought in order to keep some hope alive in the Court. The children he had comforted after the loss of their parents. The husbands and wives whose hands he had squeezed as they wept over their families. None of it had been enough. “Like… Like…” He stammered.

“This is about the court, isn’t it?”

He deflated, his indignant fury draining out of him like the water dripping from his hair. Porthos rarely felt small. He was a large man, but right now, he could have been a child huddled beneath a blanket, shivering in the cold.

“I just… I feel like everyone’s given up, yeah? Like my mother before she died,” He exhaled a shuddering breath and raised one knee so he could press his forehead to it. He didn’t want Athos to see how close he was to breaking. “The Court, the poor there, they barely fought to hold unto life once they knew they’d had the disease. If it was me, I would struggle for every breath. But… They just let go. Lay on the streets and decided to die!”

Athos stirred uncomfortably. “I see.”

“I just… I hoped to be an inspiration, y’know? When I left,” he gestured vaguely to his clothes. “That other boys from the Court could look at me and know that they could make something of themselves if they _never_ gave up. But instead I did the opposite,” a rough sob broke past his lips. “I made them feel like they weren’t worth dirt, not even worth the breath in their lungs.”

“Porthos,” Athos breathed. A warm hand landed on the back of his neck. “I rather think the aristocracy does that. Not you.”

“I _left_ them, Athos,” he cried bluntly. “First when I was young and now. Even with this Pauldron, I was still born there. I’m not ashamed of it. Those are my people, same as anyone else in France. They _needed_ me, and I deserted them to live the high life with the Musketeers.”

“No, brother. You left to live your own life. One you chose and sculpted for yourself.”

“At what cost to them?”

“And what would it have cost _you_ to stay?” He gulped. Porthos closed his eyes against a wave of fresh grief. He didn’t know who he would be without the Musketeers, without his brothers. He barely wanted to entertain the thought.

Athos leaned in closer. “I wish the people of the Court were treated with the same human dignity as everyone else, but I cannot regret that you chose to be a Musketeer. I’d not be here without you. And I don’t think you leaving stole any inspiration or hope from the Court,” Athos hesitated, then plowed on. “I think you make them – your people -proud every day.”

Porthos’s heart clenched. He sniffled past a small laugh. “You _would_ say that,” he mumbled, even as he raised his head. Sometime in the past few minutes, Athos had moved so that he sat beside him on the bed, their thighs touching, one strong arm wrapped around Porthos’s shoulder.

“I do admit to being a bit biased,” Athos said, with a mild half-shrug. “Can you blame me?”

Porthos let out a watery laugh; and tipped forward to press his cheek to Athos’s chest. Nimble fingers, deadly with a blade but gentle every time else, stroked the hair along his temples. “You’re a good brother,” Porthos whispered, feeling the truth of it flare in his chest.

“So are you,” he closed his eyes as Athos’s deep voice wafted over him. “I see how you hold yourself. As if you’re waiting for an ambush or to be shown some cruelty,” Athos’s arms tightened around him. “I have not seen this version of you for a long time, my brother. I’d hoped that between Aramis and I, we would help you learn to trust in people again.” They had.

When Porthos had first joined the Musketeers, he had never expected to be treated with respect or affection. So far in his life, only Flea or Charon had ever shown him any regard. He knew firsthand how it poisoned a child’s mind and spirit to be _hated_ by the society in which they lived. He had not known nor believed in selfless brotherhood until he met Aramis and Athos.

“Well, a few weeks in the Court disabused me of any fancy notions of honor or human decency,” he growled.

“Not in your heart, Porthos,” Athos scolded mildly. The warmth of his body and cidery scent of the soap they had used was solace to a mind that had been on alert for so long. Porthos felt the world shift, minutely. “You are in survival mode now, but you’ll find your way back. I may not have Aramis’s faith in an Almighty, but I have infinite faith in your courage.”

Ah, hell. That brought another round of tears to Porthos’s eyes. He clenched a fist in Athos’s shirt. “See? _This_ is why you’ll make a good captain,” he said, and felt Athos’s sigh beneath his ear.

“I wish I had your confidence. This place _is_ good, Porthos. It is especially healing for us, maybe, before…”

“Yeah.” They lapsed into a comfortable silence. Porthos considered moving, but quickly decided against it. It was rare that Athos allowed this kind of contact. Besides, he was well accustomed to human body heat, but the feel of Athos’s fingers smoothly trailing behind his ear and the soft breezes wafting over them was lulling him to sleep. “Hey Athos?”

“Hm,” Athos hummed, sounding on the verge of sleep himself.

Porthos curled deeper into him. “Are you afraid, to go back an’ everythin’?” he asked in a whisper. Athos’s hands momentarily halted in his hair.

“Terrified. And you?” Porthos nodded and the fingers stroked his back, heated weights settled on the top knobs of his spine.

“Scared shitless. But if I had to walk into the cavern of the shadow of…” He struggled to remember the words, then gave up with a small snort. “Despair or whatever it was Aramis was sayin, I’m glad you’ll be leadin me there.”

“Likewise, _mon ami,”_ Athos replied, voice slurred. The muscles beneath Porthos’s ear slackened. Athos’s head thunked as it hit the wall. “We should sleep.”

“I’m not sleepy…” Porthos protested, as his eyes drifted shut.

“How foolish of me. I’m not either… Not in the least…”

Then all he knew was warmth and safety.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! A little bromancery fluff to start 2020.


	6. Teachers and Sleepers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis plays the part of mother, D'Artagnan is the little brother, Athos takes up older-brothering for a living and Porthos is just trying to get everyone to sleep.

When Athos woke next, it was to the sound of dogs barking nearby. One heard a miasma of noises inside the Garrison, but dogs weren’t usually part of them. Except for that one time the stable boy had smuggled a street pup into the stables and fed it scraps until it became a large hound. The Captain had not been happy. Aramis and Porthos had been utterly delighted. It was a good memory, shimmery like sunlight on fish scales. 

Athos's eyes fluttered open slowly. He blinked the crust from his eyelashes and tried to move stiff muscles.

 _What the hell?_ He wondered when he noticed a distinct lack of weight on his chest. Last he recalled; he had fallen into a (apparently) deep sleep with Porthos snug in his arms. Now he lay in a separate bed, a cold, damp rag pressed to his forehead, alone. A bird chirped nearby.

He groaned. “Porthos?” He slurred softly.

Somewhere to his left, a body shifted, snorted. Porthos’s sleepy voice floated over to him. “Go back to sleep, ‘Thos… Wait, how’d you get over there?”

Athos wished he knew. He opened his eyes fully; and gave a start when he noticed a slim body folding clothes in a chair in front of him. Clara grinned when she noticed him staring. She let the blouse she’d been holding flutter to the ground, unfolded. “Ah, you two are awake! How do you feel?” She asked cheerily. Athos ran a hand through his hair. It came away still smelling of apple soap.

“Better than I have in a long time, actually,” Porthos admitted from his own bed. He pushed himself upright and stretched his arms above his head. His stomach grumbled, and he placed a hand against it sheepishly. “How long have we been asleep?” Clara’s grin widened.

“Since your arrival yesterday. You missed dinner, breakfast _and_ lunch.”

“We’ve been asleep for a day and a half?” Athos gasped. That explained why he was still so groggy, and why he hadn’t been aware of Clara’s presence.

“Yes. You had your friends quite worried, I should say. You especially Monsieur Athos,” she leveled a stern finger at him. “You developed a light fever halfway through last night. Overworked, I’d reckon. Your friend Aramis was nearly beside himself,” Athos glanced down. Two extra blankets had been piled atop him, evidently taken from the other two beds. He sat up, snatched the rag from his forehead. 

“Where are they now?” It was rare that Aramis left their bedside whenever one of them was ill.

“I convinced them that I would watch over you for now. Last I saw, Aramis had taken over teaching Daniel to shoot and D’Artagnan was helping my son-in-law churn the apples for cider. I felt bad making him work, but he seems to enjoy it.”

“D’Artagnan likes to keep his hands busy, madame,” Athos promised. He could already imagine that several house chores would have been finished by D’Artagnan. He glanced at Porthos and cocked his head at the fine shirt his brother now sported, the color of mustard seeds.

Looking down, he noticed he had been dressed in similar attire, the silk weightless and soft against his skin. His was the color of poppy flowers, but for once, the sight didn’t make his stomach roil with grief.

“My sons donated some of their old clothes,” Clara explained, seeing the consternation on his face. Porthos gawked at his own clothing, similarly astonished. “I hope you don’t mind. Your clothes were quite dirty and besmirched. It wasn’t helping you get better at all. Aramis agreed with me.” Athos opened his mouth, instinctively, to refuse.

His father might have had a conniption if he knew his son was accepting the clothes as well as the housing of their hosts, but his jaw clicked shut when he saw the soft, awestruck look on Porthos’s face. His friend had not grown up having fine clothes as Athos had. He’d not had the privilege of turning down charity, and the wonder in his eyes was more than enough to convince Athos to release his pride.

“I’m speechless,” he finally conceded, touched by her care. “Our thanks.”

“Has Aramis or D’Artagnan gotten any sleep?” Porthos rumbled, worriedly.

Clara’s hands snagged another shirt from the small basket at her feet. She worked like a craftsman, folding and smoothing out wrinkles. “D’Artagnan more than Aramis,” she reported succinctly. “They ate dinner with us last night, and not ten minutes later, I found D’Artagnan fast asleep by the fireplace. We left him there, and he was up and about by lunchtime. Aramis came back and cared for you, but I convinced him to sleep a little early this morning.”

Athos had a sudden image of Constance. Only she had ever convinced Aramis to sleep while one of them was bedridden. He was impressed. “A minor miracle, that. Aramis usually never sleeps when we’ve taken ill,” Porthos agreed, as he sat up.

“So I noticed. Though, I have yet to meet a man who can match a mother’s perseverance, however old and dedicated they may be,” Clara stood and brushed off her dress.

“Well, since you two are awake, how about we go outside for a spell? It’s nearly sunset, but everyone will probably still be out. We can grab some food from the kitchen,” Porthos was up immediately. Athos eased himself into a standing position hesitantly, but his limbs felt loose and rejuvenated. He still had a slight pressure in his head, but it didn’t compare to the gnawing emptiness in his belly. A good sign.

They followed Clara out of the barn and into the kitchen. There, a young girl no older than eight helped ply them with a large plate of ham slices, cheese, olives and a bottle of brandy. Porthos was popping olives into his mouth happily as they were then led to the field where Josue had been teaching Daniel the day before.

Now, the area was once more filled with children, though quieter. Aramis was sitting in the shade of the tree, legs splayed. Basically, in his lap was a green-eyed girl about thirteen, legs crossed and back straight as Aramis expertly plaited her long auburn hair.

Daniel was plonked to his left, his hands busy polishing a pistol, gnawing his lip in concentration. Another girl sat to his right, no older than seven or eight, leaning against her sister while her eyes scanned a book of… Was that Plato?

D’Artagnan was lounging on the tree swing, attention split between flinging a stick every so often for a barrage of howling canines and telling a story to his captive audience of five youngsters. His feet had been tightly bandaged. “Aramis! D’Artagnan! Look who I brought!” Clara sang. Both men looked up, and their expressions brightened.

“Athos! Porthos! You’re awake!” D’Artagnan cried in relief. 

“Athos? Porthos? _The_ Athos and Porthos?” One of the children at his feet gasped, swiveling around. The others followed suit, eyes wide and mouths agape as they beheld them. Athos arched a brow at D’Artagnan suspiciously, but his younger brother just exposed impish dimples and shrugged.

“That’s them alright,” D’Artagnan agreed warmly.

Aramis briefly waved them over. “ _Mes freres_! Come here. Let me check you over,” he ordered.

“Pushy, pushy,” Porthos teased, accepting D’Artagnan’s half-embrace.

“What did I say about staying off your feet D’Artagnan? My God, Clara, do you see what I have to deal with?” Aramis bemoaned playfully as Athos knelt before him to be examined. His forehead was felt, along with his neck, shoulders and Aramis double checked his mouth for good measure.

“I’m _fine,_ Aramis,” Athos assured him, recognizing the anxiety in his brother’s movements. Indeed, the marksman pressed a palm to his cheek, briefly.

“You gave me a scare, Athos. Never do it again,” he commanded softly. Athos dipped his head.

“I shall try to oblige.”

Porthos plonked himself down beside them; and offered the plate to Athos as he was similarly examined. “Think you can get some good sleep tonight, Aramis?” He wondered.

Aramis sat back with a sigh, fingers once more at work in the young lady’s hair. “Now that everyone is healthy and… Don’t even think it, Daniel!” Daniel dropped the pistol he had been secretly arming, suitably chastised. “I’ll sleep like a log,” Aramis smirked. “You two were so adorable, cuddled up with each other last night. It broke my heart to separate you,” he cooed. D’Artagnan snickered.

Athos flushed. “Shut up, Aramis,” he and Porthos growled in unison.

“I see you have Daniel learning how to respect his weapon,” Athos observed with a nod at the young boy. Aramis set his jaw.

“They must learn to respect them before they can use them,” he peered over the girl’s shoulder. “Isn’t that right, _mademoiselle_?” he asked. The girl in his lap wriggled impatiently.

“Missy, does it look pretty yet?” She peeped. The other girl beside her craned her neck to peer at her hair.

“I told you, you have gorgeous hair Alana. By the time I’ve finished, you’ll look beautiful enough for a crown.”

“ _Missy?”_ Porthos chuckled. Aramis glared over Alana’s head.

“There is a dance tonight in town,” Alana explained, fretfully. “Mama and papa are letting me go with my brothers, but there is a boy, Paul, that I fancy,” she twiddled her hands. “I want him to think I’m pretty.”

“You _are_ beautiful, no matter if this Paul thinks so or not,” Aramis sniffed. Alana elbowed him in the stomach.

“Of course _you_ think that, Missy! You’re my best friend.”

“Oi! I thought you were _my_ best friend!” Porthos said in mock-fury. Aramis shrugged.

“Can I not have more than one?” He asked.

“But who is your best, best friend?” Alana inquired knowingly.

“I told you she’d make Porthos jealous!” D’Artagnan called from the swing set, momentarily halting his tale.

“You said I was your best friend, Aramis!” Daniel grumbled. “That’s why I’m polishing this stupid pistol!”

“You’re training your hands to _know_ the pistol, Daniel,” Aramis corrected with infinite patience. He squinted at a particular snag, tugged at it gently. Alana hissed in pain. “My apologies, C _herie_. I have to admit, though, I have known Porthos a _little_ longer than you,”

“But we’re still best, best friends.”

“Do I get a choice?”

“No.”

Aramis chuckled softly. “Sorry, Porthos, I have been kidnapped against my will.” Porthos rolled his eyes.

“You were a load of trouble anyway,” he supposed. “Remember to beat him regularly Alana. Else he won’t behave,” Arami opened his mouth to reply when a new voice boomed from across the yard.

“Alana! Why are you making that poor man braid your hair?!” Athos looked up, and noticed one of the only adults he had seen here besides Clara and Josue. One of their sons, he assumed. The man was almost as tall as his father, with a head of slick, curling brown hair and cheekbones strong enough to shame a skeleton. His twinkling green eyes and sunny smile were clearly from Clara. He walked up to them, gave Athos a cordial nod, and stuck his hands into sagging pockets.

“He’s supposed to be here resting before he goes to fight and serve our King. Make one of your sisters do it,” he said. Alana looked as if someone had just told her she might be executed at dawn.

“Clarise always pulls too hard, and Diana can’t braid very well!” The girl next to her, Diana, Athos assumed, nodded in apologetic agreement. “Besides, Missy is a genius and my best friend now,” Alana declared defiantly. The man above her hummed suspiciously. Aramis smiled.

“A genius, eh? Porthos, why don’t you ever say such sweet things to me?”

“I would never lie to you Aramis,” Porthos grunted.

Aramis turned to the man. “I grew up with sisters, Henry. I’m more than happy to help Alana prepare for such a momentous occasion,” he assured him.

“I don’t know if I like this Paul fellow,” Henry growled.

“Papa! Paul is nice!” Alana wailed in such a long-suffering tone that for the first time ever, Athos was sorely glad he’d never had any sisters to contend with. Thomas had been a dramatic person in his own way. He couldn’t imagine having _two_ siblings of the same stature.

“He’s a boy. Boys aren’t nice unless they’re after one thing. I don’t trust him,” Henry harrumphed.

“Listen to your father, Alana,” Aramis cautioned. “He is wise.”

“Missy! You’re supposed to be on my side!”

“I am on the side of _truth,_ and… Don’t move, Alana! You’ll mess up my handiwork!”

The girl reading leaned over to shove the book in front of his nose. “Missy, what is this word?” She asked politely. Aramis jerked his head to Athos.

“Take it to Athos, Diana. He can read Greek better, and is infinitely more suited to figuring out Plato’s complex theories than I am. I fear I studied theological philosophers, mainly,” Diana looked up shyly and despite the fact that Athos had little to no experience with children and only bad experiences with women, he tried to wave her over in a somewhat welcoming manner. She scooted closer to him quietly; and pointed to the phrase.

“Kosmos Noetos,” Athos began. “Latin, I believe. It’s how Plato distinguished his world of forms.” Diana nodded sagely and returned to her reading. Athos spared a moment to wonder if she knew what that meant, because _he_ admittedly wasn’t entirely sure.

“Are _we_ going to the festival?” Porthos asked.

“Aramis says I’m not allowed to walk around for extended periods of time yet,” D’Artagnan pouted.

“And Athos should be resting still,” Aramis pointed out. “You can go, Porthos, because you’ve retained some sense and not gotten injured or an illness.”

“I can’t go without the rest of you!” Porthos cried.

“Aramis, if I walk on crutches, can I go with Porthos?” D’Artagnan begged.

“Is Aramis the mother here?” Henry asked with a laugh.

“He chose the role himself,” Athos informed the other man dryly.

Aramis spent a moment trying to kick Athos with one of his outstretched feet. He gave up when Athos scooted out of his reach, sighing. “If you go on crutches _and_ stay off the dance floor, D’Art,” he groused.

“I wasn’t going dancing anyway. I want to buy something for Constance.” Ah, young love. Sometimes D’Artagnan’s devotion to Constance sent a sour pit into Athos’s stomach. He remembered that same…

“Fine. You can go. Athos is still forbidden,” he shrugged.

“Yes!” D’Artagnan whooped.

His excitement was contagious. Athos let the corners of his mouth twitch upwards. “Do you need money?” He asked. D’Artagnan gave him a flatly offended glare.

“I brought my own, thank you. Besides, I have Porthos.” A good point.

“You aren’t going?” He asked Aramis, who shook his head.

“They are building another small room into the local church,” he explained. “The priest, Father Ulysses, asked me to help and I agreed.”

“You’re supposed to be restin, Aramis,” Porthos reminded him firmly.

“I will, _mon ami,_ but God sends us to help as we have been helped. It is for a good cause. Besides, it’ll allow me some time doing simple work with my hands. It won’t take long.”

“Monsieur Athos, will you help me with my Greek, since you’re staying?” Diana nearly whispered, peeking up at him through her eyelashes. He was surprised at the request, but couldn’t help but nod, sensing a kindred spirit behind her shyness.

“I’d be honored,” he confessed. Diana smiled.

“See? Athos is doing good work too.” Porthos did not look appeased.

“Is everyone ready to go?” Clara asked as she walked over, pinning up a stray curl of hair. She had redressed in a beautiful summer dress the color of red poppies. It swayed around her ankles; and complimented the rosy hue of her sun-tanned cheeks.

“Missy?” Alana begged.

“I’m almost done, I’m almost done!”

“You look beautiful, mama,” Henry said, as he walked over to kiss Clara on the cheek. “Is papa coming?”

“Not this year. His leg pains him. Aramis, would you…?”

“I’ll look him over before I leave, _madame._ Don’t worry.”

“You’re an angel,” Clara said. She turned to her grandchildren. “You look beautiful, Alana! I see you’ve been studying Diana. Keep at it and I might convince your papa to let you come to London with me when I go selling brandy next fall,” Diana’s face lit up with an entranced grin. Athos silently vowed that by the end of the night, she would be able to read Latin _and_ Greek.

“No promises,” Henry grumbled.

“Daniel, go put the pistol away. Your lessons are done for the day. Get ready to go, lad! Hurry, hurry! Henry, would you feed and lock away these excited mutts? We can’t bring them with us into town. They make Suzanna’s girl sneeze,” Henry hurried to obey her. Clara swiveled to pin the four of them with an assessing look. “Are you gentlemen coming?” She asked, in a tone that suggested she would be highly offended if someone didn’t answer in the affirmative.

“Porthos and I are, madame Clara,” D’Artagnan hurried to reply. Clara grinned brightly.

“Excellent! You’ll need crutches, I assume?” A nod. “Diana, go get D’Artagnan some of your grand-pere’s old crutches. The rest of you up, up! Storytime is over. Go prepare yourselves for dinner and bed. We have a long day tomorrow.”

“What’s tomorrow?” Athos asked.

“Tomorrow, we’re selling the apples!” Daniel cried. The other children squealed with excitement.

“We’ll be at the market all day doing business. We take the children so they can learn the trade. I’ve promised them that if they behave and learn everything they can, I will take them to the puppet show happening later in the town square,” Clara explained.

“You’ll have the run of the house to yourselves, Musketeers,” Henry said. The four of them exchanged a glance in which a million possibilities -some of them disastrous – ran through their minds. At last, Porthos just shrugged.

“We’ll probably spend the day asleep,” he chuckled.

“A fine plan,” Clara declared with an approving smile. “Is everyone ready?”

Aramis dropped his hands to rummage on the ground for a small mirror. He held it up for Alana to grab, patting any latent curls into submission busily. “Alright, Alana, your thoughts?” She gazed at herself, and promptly broke into delighted laughter.

“Missy, I look _spectacular!_ Don’t you think so, papa?” Henry’s smile was a touch watery as he helped his daughter to her feet. He kissed her, very softly, on the forehead.

“You look as stunning as your mother, sweetheart,” he whispered. Alana turned to Aramis with clasped hands.

“Oh, thank you! You truly are the best of friends!” she cried. Aramis stood and gave her a courtly bow, kissing her on the knuckles.

“Have fun tonight. And as my best, best friend you’ll do me a favor and keep an eye on D’Artagnan, yes? Make sure he uses those crutches,” a sly look over one shoulder at said man. D’Artagnan rolled his eyes. Alana nodded with a youthful sincerity that reminded Athos, with a pang, of Thomas.

“I will, promise.”

Aramis winked. “That’s my girl.”

“Alright, everyone come along!” Clara yelled, clapping her hands. Daniel brushed past her, yanking a comb through errant curls hair. A few more adults piled outside, laughing as they headed to the road. “Into the wagon and off to town!”

Alana snatched the ends of her dress into one hand. Henry offered her his arm and they started after the others. “Thanks again, Aramis! Bye, Diana!” She called over her shoulder.

“You’ll be alrigh here, ‘Thos?” Porthos leaned close to whisper, with a pointed look. Athos smiled at his needless concern. If Aramis was the mother-hen of their group, then Porthos rivaled him as the irrepressible papa bear.

“Diana and I have philosophy to study,” he assured him as Diana approached with a pair of crutches. She bounced on her toes excitedly.

“Grand-mere! Monsieur Athos is going to help me with my Greek!”

Clara’s glance of gratitude and approval banished the last of his misgivings as a mentor to the young girl. “How splendid, darling! You have a great teacher.”

Aramis was harassing D’Artagnan again, standing behind him to help get the crutches situated under his arms. “Have fun. Don’t strain yourself, D’Artagnan,” no sooner had he said it that one of the crutches fell from their hands and toppled to the ground. “D’Artagnan! Oh, what am I to do with you fools?” Aramis snapped. Porthos pulled their brother away before D’Artagnan could stab him with a sword out of pure vexation.

“Stop _worryin_ , Aramis. Build your church, but get some sleep, alright?” Porthos grabbed their friend by the shoulders, arching so that he could look Aramis in the eyes. He shook him roughly. “Promise me now.”

Aramis screwed his lips into a displeased line. “I promise I will sleep deeply as soon as I know D’Artagnan isn’t going to lose a foot and Athos isn’t going to die of a cold,” the sarcasm made Porthos scowl dangerously. Still, he clapped Aramis on the back and stepped away.

“That’s the spirit! Just in case, Athos, make sure he…?”

 _I’m insulted he should even need to speak the words._ “We’ll be _fine,_ Porthos,” he waved him away. “Go. Enjoy yourselves.”

“We’ll see you later tonight! Don’t do anything we wouldn’t do!” D’Artagnan called as he quickly hobbled after the small crowd rushing to the wagons waiting down the road. Porthos trailed him at a leisurely pace, his sharp eyes watching for any signs of imbalance. Athos watched them go, fondness a glowing warmth in his chest.

“I’m going to check on Josue,” Aramis said, brushing away the strands of hair that Alana had left on his clothes. “Happy studying.”

“Bye, Missy!” Diana said. She yanked on his arm and Aramis obligingly leaned over to allow her to kiss his cheek. “You’re my best friend too,” she whispered conspiratorially. Aramis’s answering wink did nothing to hide the wetness in his eyes. With an extravagant bow to them both, he stuffed his hat unto his head and left for the big house.


	7. King Arthur's Knights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos and Aramis discuss treason, Athos is trying to learn Spanish for a friend and D'Artagnan suggests a good old fashioned barnyard wrestle to raise their spirits.

Aramis found him later, engrossed in a novel about Morte D’Arthur. The library where Diana had suggested they study was one which rivaled the archives he had kept at Pinon. The four walls were covered with books, most fraying and old, but still readable. Beneath the window was a lounge chaise where they had commenced with their lessons until the sun lowered from the sky.

Athos was reading by candlelight when a shadow appeared in his peripheral vision. He raised his head just as his friend waltzed into the room, smelling of apple soap and wearing a silk shirt of deep purple.

“I thought I would find you here,” Aramis said. He had pitched his voice low in respect for the late hour. He lowered himself into the lounge sofa at Athos’s side with a grunt. “What happened to Diana?”

Athos marked his place in the story and put the book down. Even in the dim light of candles, he could see the scratches adorning Aramis’s arms and hands. He took one into his possession to study the abrasions. “Josue took her and the other children to bed.”

“I see,” Aramis flung an arm over the chair’s back. “And her lessons?”

“She’s a brilliant child. I wish I’d had her aptitude for learning when I was young. If she were a boy, she’d be a worthy scholar.” She had, in fact, reminded him very much of The Comtesse Ninon.

A scowl. “A shame. Perhaps we can convince Henry to continue her lessons, then.”

“He’s opposed?”

“According to Alana. He wishes her to follow in her sister’s footsteps and worry more about marriage,” Athos nodded. He had been impressed that the family had even allowed Diana this far into such advanced studies. However, it would all be a waste if she were unable to continue learning and bring some light into the world. Marriage would only spoil her limitless potential.

“She could do much good as a teacher or businesswoman. That is an act of diplomacy I wouldn’t mind taking part in,” he released Aramis’s arm with a pat. “How is the church doing?”

“Ah, it’s still in the early stages. We managed to cut all the wood and set the frame. The rest will take a few more weeks. I’ll stop in periodically to help,” the marksman made a point of studying his fingernails. “Do you have any clue how long we’ll be here?” He wondered, as if it were of no consequence. Athos exhaled a slow breath. He had been trying very hard not to think about Paris or their subsequent return to the doomed city.

“Until the King returns in two weeks.”

“ _Two weeks_?”

A shrug. “Or less, depending. He has someone running correspondences back and forth to report on the state of things in Paris.”

“And?”

“It isn’t good news.”

They lapsed into silence then, both trapped in their own thoughts of the future. Athos shuddered to imagine what he might find when he re-entered Treveille’s office. Would he find his commanding officer, practically a second father to him, lying dead and cold at his desk, surrounded by the men he’d loved? How could he lead after such a tragedy?

His dour thoughts were interrupted by Aramis, who snatched the book from his lap and peered at the title. “Le Morte D’Arthur? I never took you for the honorable type, Athos,” he teased. Athos reclaimed the book.

“Very funny,” he drawled in return, reclaiming the book. His fingers ran over the soiled leather cover reverently. “I read this book as a child.”

Aramis’s eyes were affectionate in the flickering light. “I can imagine _that,”_ he agreed. Athos didn’t reply for a moment, tossing about his next words carefully in his mind.

“Thomas never fancied it,” he at last confessed, slowly. He felt Aramis stiffen with surprise next to him. He did not speak of Thomas. Ever. “He didn’t fancy books at all, really. I was always eager to learn, though,” he set the book on the window ledge and stared out at the moonlit apple pastures. “I feel as if I’ve let my studies fall to the wayside recently.”

Aramis followed his gaze. “Our work rarely allows leisure time to read,” he pointed out, in a tone of endless forgiveness and understanding. Athos could never imagine his brother as anyone or anything other than what he was, but he had to admit that Aramis would have made for a good priest.

Not like the corrupt Richlieu or the other arrogant pastors of Paris. Aramis sometimes made Athos believe in a higher good, if only because he embodied that good in his every breath.

Which was why he laid this confession at his brother’s feet. “I could if I stayed away from the bottle more.”

Aramis kept his expression carefully neutral, but the way he gripped Athos’s shoulder, hard enough to bruise, was full of hope. “What are you saying?”

“I… I’m not sure,” Athos admitted. He let out a dark snort. “The Captain of the Musketeers can hardly be a depraved fool drunkard, can he?”

The grip on his shoulder loosened considerably, massaged the tense muscles. “A drunkard you may be, my friend, but not a fool or depraved. You have never allowed your relationship with the bottle to affect your work before…” Aramis smiled sheepishly when Athos stared at him. “Well, not _dangerously_ so at any rate. Being hung-over at rollcall hardly counts. And we shall not speak of other times because you have long made-up for them. Why should Captaincy change that?”

“Captaincy will change a lot of things.”

“Nothing that _matters.”_

Athos mashed a fist against his cheek, set his jaw in frustration. “Don’t you see? I will have to uphold the Garrison’s image before the King. Our continued existence depends on whether I can persuade him to have mercy in one of his _moods,”_ he growled _._ Aramis, bastard that he was, didn’t seem nearly as panicked about the idea as Athos was. He merely stretched his arms above his head and hid a yawn.

“I believe in you, Athos.”

“You sound like Porthos. And D’Artagnan.” Idiots. The whole lot of them. Why weren’t they _terrified_ that he would fail them? Athos had been able to think of nothing else for days.

“Ah, _mon ami,_ when will you accept that we are wiser and more sensible than you?” Athos couldn’t quite hold back his bark of sardonic laughter.

“I shall not deign to answer that,” he informed his friend. Aramis chuckled softly. “But I am being selfish. How are you?”

“I’m not the one recovering from fever. Speaking of which, let me…”

“Aramis.”

Said person stopped in mid-air, stilled by the veiled command in Athos’s voice. He glanced at him. Athos held his gaze, and Aramis backed down. He instead rocketed to his feet, as if propelled by a sudden wind, and started scrolling through the books. Athos knew he saw none of them.

“Athos, I’m…”

“If you are determined to lie, at least have the decency to find a word better than _fine_.”

Aramis leaned against a bookshelf heavily, facing Athos. He crossed his arms, in what Athos assumed was a defensive gesture but just made him look like a child trying to stave off the cold. His features, normally handsome, now looked haggard and old in the flickering candlelight. “In the church. It was crowded always, but that was to be expected. I did not prepare myself for the… The masses of… There were so many _children….”_

Athos closed his eyes against similar memories. “I know.”

“We had no other recourse. They died so quickly and so many that we just prayed and burned them. All at once, in a giant pile. I thought I’d never smell anything but the acrid smoke of human bodies ever again…” Athos’s heart clenched in sympathy. He knew how much Aramis revered human life, and children were held in even higher esteem in his mind. To leave the bodies of the young unburied and unbaptized must have been a harsh blow. “The Dauphin. Do you think…?”

Athos’s eyes snapped open. “ _Aramis!_ ” He warned, glancing quickly at the door. No one was there but that did not make this place a safe spot to even mention The Crowned Prince. “I thought we agreed to never speak of this _again.”_ Aramis bowed his head guiltily.

“Forgive me,” he whispered, with such remorse that Athos had to relent a little. He relaxed into the seat.

“In another life, you would have made for a great father,” he remarked. Aramis did not raise his eyes.

“I suppose we’ll never know.”

“Did you not see how Alana, Diana and Daniel looked at you? You’ve already attained the status of god in their eyes.” It was remarkable, in fact, that not even two days into their stay and the children had flocked to Aramis. True, it seemed that almost _everyone_ flocked to Aramis.

“Just because I am good with children does not mean I’d make a good father,” Aramis argued, because he did not see any of what Athos did. “My own was not… Exemplary.”

Athos snorted. “Join the club.” The few stories Aramis had told them of his father painted him as a hard-working and cunning man, but not especially affectionate or fair. Then again, Athos had grown up much the same.

“That’s what you’re worried about, isn’t it?” Now Aramis looked up, and Athos remembered that he was _insightful_ as well as charming and reckless. “Keeping my secret _and_ being Captain.”

Fine. If they were going to speak of treason, he may as well expose all his concerns about it. Athos leaned forward and clasped his hands between his legs, making sure that Aramis could see the seriousness in his gaze. “If you’re discovered, the blame will fall on me, and by extension the rest of the regiment,” he hissed. “The stakes are _raised_ , Aramis. It’s not only our lives on the line here. The Musketeers could be disbanded, permanently. Is that what you want?”

“You could disavow me,” Aramis pointed out, with chilling indifference. “I would swear you never saw or knew a thing.”

His breath left him in a long whoosh. “Would _you_ demand that of me? Have me sentence another person I care about to hang at the end of a noose?” He gasped. Aramis smiled darkly.

“If I return from the grave, I promise not to try and assassinate you….” Athos gaped as if someone had just socked him in the gut. Aramis was at his side in three strides, kneeling to take his hands into his own. “My apologies. That was cruel.” Athos nodded, still speechless. “I am not trying to be a burden on you, Athos, but my heart _screams…”_

Athos retracted his hands from the warm grip. “So, silence it.”

Aramis shook his head violently. “You think I haven’t tried?!”

“Try _harder_ , Aramis! For the sake of our brothers. Our regiment. For _my_ sake, if nothing else will spur you.”

Aramis deflated, tilting forward to lay his forehead against Athos’s knees. “I am tired, Athos,” he whispered sincerely. “I don’t want to fight you anymore. I know that my recent… Actions have cast doubt on my trustworthiness in your eyes. I cannot undo the past. I’m not sure if I would, given the chance,” and _that_ was the perennial problem with Aramis.

He would accept any consequence. Resign himself to worse and worse fates, but he would never repent any mistake he saw as right. He was not a loyal devotee of duty as Athos was. He knew only his heart. Athos could have strangled him for it. “But tell me what you want. Tell me what I can do to earn back your trust.”

Athos squeezed handfuls of curly hair in tights fists. “Damn it all, Aramis, if it is the last thing I do, you _will_ learn self-sacrifice. At the end of my blade, if necessary!” he vowed, in a growl that would have frightened him with anyone else. But Aramis was… Taxing.

“It will likely be the last thing we ever argue about, Athos, but if it is within my power, you _will_ learn self-love.” He was taxing and reckless and an emotional fool, but his propensity for compassion had saved Athos’s life more than once. He emptied out his chest sighing.

“Get up,” he ordered, grabbing Aramis’s upper arm and dragging him back to sit beside Athos. “Come sit,” for once, his brother was compliant.

When he had been rearranged into his spot, Athos grabbed _Le Morte D’Arthur_ , and plopped it into his hands. Then he swiveled around so that he lay with his head lying on Aramis’s shoulder. “Read to me.”

Aramis snorted a laugh. “Is that an order, _captain_?” He asked, turning his body so that Athos was resting more against his chest than shoulder.

Athos made himself comfortable, crossing his arms and ankles. He closed his eyes and relaxed into Aramis’s warm half embrace. “It is. In Spanish, if you please.”

“Why in the world do you want me to read to you in Spanish? You can’t understand Spanish,” Aramis pointed out, even as he wrapped an arm around Athos’s shoulders and set his chin between the cleft of neck and shoulder. His beard tickled the shell of Athos’s ear.

“Diana has inspired me. I’m learning. Yet how can I perfect my pronunciation if I don’t hear it aloud? Read.”

“Why are you learning _Spanish_ , of all the languages?”

“I have a brother who speaks it.”

He could feel Aramis smiling, his mouth set close to his forehead. “Oh really?”

“Yes. He’ll be the death of me, one day, but in the meantime whenever he speaks in Spanish, it’s as if a whole world of troubles and agonies falls from his shoulders. I’d like to see more of that. So, I’m learning Spanish.”

“How sweet of you.”

“Shut up and read,” he grumbled. Aramis chuckled once more in his ear and started flipping through the pages to where Athos last left off.

“Your wish is my command, captain.” Then he spoke, and the deep rumble of his voice beneath Athos’s shoulder was soothing. It really was as if Aramis’s troubles fell away when he spoke his mother’s native tongue. The hoarseness of his French voice vanished; he was quieter, smoother. Athos couldn’t understand a single word, but Aramis’s voice lulled him into a light doze all the same.

He only woke maybe minutes or hours later when Aramis’s voice abruptly quieted. The book slipped from his fingers unto Athos’s stomach. The Spanish ended, replaced with light snores next to his ear. Athos grinned and opened his eyes.

Aramis was draped over his shoulder, eyes closed in a deep, blissful sleep. Athos hoped he was dreaming of King Arthur and his Knights, instead of dead children and cold forests. He started to rise, but Aramis’s arms tightened around him.

Athos stilled completely, waiting for Aramis to relax again. When he had, he carefully extracted himself from his brother’s grip and slipped free. Gently as if he were handling a sleeping babe, he rearranged Aramis’s lanky limbs until he was lying on his side. Aramis curled into himself, snuffling.

It was, even Athos could admit, adorable.

He knelt beside his brother and ghosted a formal kiss across his brow. “Rest well, Aramis,” he whispered. Aramis only snuggled deeper into the cushions. Athos swallowed past the lump of love in his throat.

_“You could disavow me. I would swear you never saw or knew a thing.”_

Athos would never survive that. He rubbed a thumb up and down Aramis’s forehead in a sign of the cross. “Father who rule over the Earth, the heavens and seas, protect my brothers,” he begged in a hoarse whisper, for the first time in seven years. “Give them strength when weak, and comfort when distraught. Shield them from harm and disease; and give unto them mercy and good fortune. In His Name, Amen.”

The room echoed his words in numb silence. Athos found his feet, bitterly. He had yet to say a prayer he felt confident was being heard. Something moved behind him, and he turned. Josue was leaning in the doorway, his wooden leg a limp object in the dark. “ _You_ look like you need a drink,” Josue observed. Athos scrubbed a hand down his face with a grim smile.

“If you have any to spare, I certainly wouldn’t refuse.”

Josue nodded and beckoned him forward. “Come with me.” With a last cursory glance over his friend to make sure that he stayed asleep, Athos followed Josue down the hall. They entered a separate room – a study, apparently – small and immaculate. The mahogany wine cupboard glinted as Athos lit the candelabra shining above.

Josue waved a hand at the small set of chairs in the corner, hiding beneath a map of the world. Athos sat with a sigh, watched the deep red wine as it was poured into the cup. “Thank you,” he murmured. It felt as if he had not smelled or seen anything but apples in weeks, despite their relatively short time there. He sipped it, and blinked. “This is a fine grape vintage.”

Josue settled into the opposite chair, rubbing his stump with one hand while the other gripped the glass. “I managed to convince my wife that we don’t need to have apples _all the time,”_ he scoffed. Athos raised his glass in salute.

“I heard you’re teaching my grand-daughter Greek,” Athos dipped his head in acknowledgement.

“I hope you don’t mind. She’s a clever and patient girl. Aramis and I see her having a successful future in business or as a teacher,” Josue nodded thoughtfully.

“Yes, yes, we’ve been told. Diana is special. She came out of the womb reading, I swear. Yet her mother, God bless her soul, passed away in childbirth. Diana is Henry’s youngest child, and he fears her having her heart broken if she continues to study, only to be rebuffed later,” oh good.

The way that Aramis had phrased it, Athos had feared that Henry would not approve of a daughter focusing on anything but marriage. He had found that convincing _those_ fathers to allow their daughters other options was an altogether impossible feat. He sipped his wine, taking a moment to compose his thoughts.

“A reasonable fear. Surely there are places she could carve a living for herself? I have met many educated women in Paris.”

Josue stared at him from the corner of his eye. “You are an interesting man, monsieur Athos. You approve of women having education?”

“I have yet to meet one who was not the complete equal of a man.”

“Or superior,” Josue snorted. “I agree. I’ll speak with Henry about it, thank you. Your word should go a long way with him. Already, you four have made quite the impression on our secluded little farm. I am sorry that you came under such dire circumstances, but I cannot be sorry that you are here.” Athos would not describe the farm as little, but he appreciated the sentiment.

“Thank you. I must also extend my thanks to you. It has been a trying few weeks for us all,” he huffed a tired breath. “Being here has given my friends a bit of the peace we’d thought lost in Paris.” Porthos no longer looked as if he expected someone to murder them at any moment. Aramis was finally sleeping. D’Artagnan… Well, Athos had a feeling _he_ was still hiding something, but the lad hadn’t ceased smiling since arrival so there was some progress.

“Oh, I can imagine. You give as much joy as you take. Clara has loved having you all here, and it’ll be good to have new blood soldiers around to drink with,” Josue seemed suddenly very entranced by the swish of wine in his glass. “D’Artagnan told me that Jean stayed behind?”

Athos exhaled heavily. “Yes.”

“To remain with his men, no doubt.”

“We are fortunate to have such an honorable man as our Captain.”

Josue was silent a long span of seconds, sorrow flaring in his eyes. He gulped and looked up. “D’Artagnan also mentioned that you’re to take his place as Captain when you return?”

 _D’Artagnan needs to learn to keep his mouth shut._ Athos shifted as a curl of self-doubt nudged his ribs beneath Josue’s weary gaze. “Unfortunately.”

Josue rubbed at the knob where his leg turned into wood. “I do not envy you the task, but from what I have seen and been told by your friends, there is no man worthier.” Athos ducked his head.

“They are a bit biased.”

To his credit, the older man did not contradict him. “But not wrong. You are a strong and compassionate man, Athos. I would follow you, if I still had both legs.” He held up the wooden one pointedly. Athos glanced at it.

“May I ask… What happened?” He asked, cautious. He had met veterans who were all too eager to describe the circumstances around their injuries and scars. He had met others who flinched if one so much as looked at them.

“Oh, nothing overly special,” Josue waved a dismissive hand, eyes downcast. “I got hit with a cannon blast. I didn’t feel a thing. The man who did it was a butcher though. I only lost a foot, but he feared infection, so he took the whole leg.”

Athos cringed. This was not an uncommon story among soldiers. He had feared the same outcome himself, only the sure knowledge that his brothers would be well into their graves before seeing him cast aside comforted him. “I am sorry.”

“Don’t be. It was a long time ago,” Josue looked up, smiled wanly. “When it happened, I thought my life was over, but my brothers and Clara never gave up on me. I am fortunate to have them. They’ve made me a better man, and you see what has become of their support of me.”

“Yes. Your story is heartening.”

“There is _always_ hope, Athos. If you learn nothing else here, let it be that _,” God, how I wish that were true. How I wish I could believe it._ “Now, why don’t you tell me about your brothers? Aramis and D’Artagnan were more than happy to boast about you and Porthos while you two were asleep at dinner last night, but I’ve yet to hear any stories from you.”

Of course they had. Athos tried not to worry about the embarrassing stories that Aramis had accumulated over their years together. D’Artagnan, too, would surely have some blackmail hidden in his pockets.

Not that Athos didn’t. He would start with D’Artagnan.

“I imagine you’ve already seen what kind of men they are,” he slung his right ankle over a leg. “D’Artagnan is the newest. He came to us little under a year ago, and at our first meeting he charged into the Garrison, challenged me to a duel and tried to kill me. Then had me arrested.”

If Josue’s apparent gawking was any indication, D’Artagnan had negated to tell his own story. “What in the hell?” Athos resisted the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“His father had just been murdered. The attacker identified himself as Athos, and D’Artagnan came searching for vengeance. It was all very noble,” he assured Josue, who relaxed with a nod. “When Aramis and Porthos went to clear my name, he accompanied them and proved himself a just, honorable and inventive man.”

“Aramis mentioned that you agreed to mentor him. Is that why? He helped clear your name?”

“Well, I wasn’t guilty in the first place,” Athos pointed out dryly. “No. Despite his humble upbringing, he has raw talent with the sword such as I’ve never seen.”

“High praise from a master swordsman.”

“Be assured, he’s still reckless, impatient and hot-headed, but a few months ago, he saved the Captain’s life and more than earned his own commission.”

Josue’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “And this Constance he keeps going on about?” He asked slyly. Athos leaned forward to pitch his voice low.

“He’s hopelessly in love. She’s married to another man though,” he confided in a dramatic whisper. Josue’s eyes widened at the tidbit of gossip.

“Oh ho ho! Somehow I don’t foresee that stopping him.”

“Did I mention he’s tenacious?”

Josue chuckled. He sipped his wine, and Athos had the feeling he was being analyzed as closely as his story. “And Aramis?”

“I admittedly have no memory of meeting Aramis. I was… A bit preoccupied at the time,” meaning he had been drunk enough to stumble into the Seine, only to be fished out by Porthos and tended too by Aramis.

He had no recollection of it however, only a vague notion verified by his brothers. “I could tell you many, many, _many_ wild tales. Yet I am wary of the retribution that would follow, so suffice to say, Aramis is… A contradiction. Faithful to the Almighty, but we find him in the bedchambers of women more often than not.”

“Is that where he learned to braid a woman’s hair? Because the skill evades me.”

“Probably. He’s been a soldier the longest. He’s also a brute with that musket. I met him directly after he had survived a massacre.” He looked askance to see how this information would be received. His audience nodded, gravely.

“Jean wrote to us about it. Savoy, was it?”

“Aramis displayed a strength and courage such as I’d never seen those few months after such a horrific event. Still, he and D’Artagnan compete for the most reckless, and he follows orders as well as a deaf dog,” Josue barked a laugh. Athos smiled and stared into his cup thoughtfully.

“When I arrived in Paris, I was… Not in a good way,” he admitted quietly. “I had just suffered the premature deaths of my wife and brother. I was seeking oblivion more than purpose,” The older man exhaled a slow breath, but there was no judgement or censure in his eyes.

“Any sane men would have left me to it. Fortunate for me, I am not surrounded by _sane men._ Aramis and Porthos saw past my self-pity to the man I could become; and worked tirelessly with me to see it done. When D’Artagnan arrived, he only helped finish what they had begun. I cannot imagine my life without any of them,” Josue leaned forward to pat his knee.

“So far as I can see, the sentiment is mutual, lad. Those men would do anything for you.”

Athos closed his eyes. “I know.”

“You boys do remind me so much of me and my brothers.”

His eyes fluttered open. “I have yet to meet them,” he said, as the wine begot a warm ember of content in his stomach. The crisp taste of apples sat on his tongue.

“They’re pretending to be shy. I think they’re a little intimidated, if you catch my meaning?” Athos didn’t, and it must have shown on his face. Josue rolled his eyes. “Seeing young, brave soldiers still in their prime will do funny things to an old man’s pride,” he said. Oh. Athos hadn’t thought of that. He was suddenly all too aware of his multiple aches, pains and general weariness with the world.

“The only one of us who still feels young or brave is D’Artagnan,” he sighed, with some regret. Josue snorted.

“He’ll grow out of it.”

“Indeed.”

“What will I grow out of?” They both swiveled just in time to see D’Artagnan enter the room, warily. He had pieces of hay straggling from his hair in odd places. His breeches had been rolled up to his knees, which were pockmarked with mud and dirt. His shoulder were hunched with exhaustion, but the steady confidence in his gait and small smile bespoke nothing but satisfied tiredness.

“How was the festival?” Athos asked, before Josue could rehash their entire conversation. He offered D’Artagnan his own glass. The younger man waved it away, looking a bit green.

“It was incredible,” he answered. “I think I ate too many candied plums, and Porthos _definitely_ had a little too much to drink, but it was a good time.”

“Where is Porthos?” He tended toward giggly unruliness when drunk. Not entirely proper for a stranger’s home.

“He found Aramis asleep in the library. He went to take him to bed.” That might pose a problem if Porthos couldn’t make it up the ladder, but he trusted Aramis, even in a sleepy state, to prevent Porthos from breaking his neck. “Am I interrupting?”

“No, no, I was just asking your friend to tell me some humiliating stories. You held him at sword point?” Josue teased. D’Artagnan inhaled a sharp breath.

“Athos!” He accused.

“I assure you, _we_ find it an endearing story to tell D’Artagnan.” D’Artagnan looked anything but mollified, but before he could continue with his needless mortification, Josue stood and patted his shoulder.

“I think it makes you a courageous and honorable lad. Is my wife home as well?” He wondered. His younger brother nodded.

“Yes, monsieur. She’s sending the children off to bed now.”

“I should go find her,” Josue decided. He started toward the door, waving both Athos and D’Artagnan way when they went to help him. “I am without leg, not incapable. You gentlemen have a good night.”

“You as well, Josue,” he hesitated. “Thank you for the… advice.”

“Any time, Captain Athos.”

Athos watched in silence as the older soldier made his leave. When they had lapsed into silence, D’Artagnan crossed his arms. “Should I ask?”

“A story for another day, I think,” Athos downed the rest of his wine and stood. “What did you buy Constance?”

“Oh!” D’Artagnan rummaged in his pocket. “Look. Porthos helped me pay for it, but I picked it out,” he held up a small jeweled rose on golden twine. It was a finely crafted piece, simple but beautiful. Constance would love it.

Then Athos digested the rest of what D’Artagnan had said. “Porthos wasn’t up to his usual tricks, was he?” He demanded. Gambling half the town out of their money was _not_ what he had meant when he’d told Porthos to have a good time. Even if it helped them buy Constance a gift.

“No. He played a few games, but for no money,” he let out a sigh of relief. “Guess who we ran into, though?”

He blinked. “Oh no.”

“Other Musketeers! They’re staying with a family in town that Treveille saved a few years back. It’s Araine, Blaise, Hugo and Cerise. I invited them over tomorrow,” D’Artagnan swayed where he stood. Athos caught him with a firm hand on the shoulder and reflected, exasperatedly, that Porthos was probably not the only one who’d had too much to drink.

“You invited them over to a house we don’t own?”

D’Artagnan rolled his eyes. “Athos, please,” Athos glared. “Madame Clara said it was alright! Besides, everyone is going to the market tomorrow.”

“And what are we doing, pray tell?”

“I need to practice lunges with my left arm,” D’Artagnan informed him. “You need to work on stamina since you were sick, Aramis needs to relax, and if Porthos doesn’t hit something in the next few days, he’s going to hit one of us. Probably you or me, since he’s worried about Aramis. Have you truly not noticed?”

Athos had not. Then again, he had been sick or asleep for a good part of the last two days. He chalked it up to that and his own lingering exhaustion. He squeezed his youngest brother’s shoulders and steered him from the room. “I am glad you have been so vigilant while the rest of us have lost our minds,” he said.

D’Artagnan wrapped a loose arm around his waist. “One of us has to have some sense, sometimes, and you old geezers forget how easy it is to read you.”

He gave a start. “Geezers?” He demanded. D’Artagnan shrugged, but it was all too easy to see his grin in the dim light.

“Am I wrong?”

“Allow me to answer that tomorrow. With a sword. While we spar.”

D’Artagnan groaned.


	8. Chest Elephants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys wake the next morning, bicker and tease for a few minutes, and then things get serious. Of course, the Queen is involved.

Aramis woke, dreamless, for the first time in weeks. He also, for the first time in a long time, woke up feeling _warm._ Slowly, he became aware of the world around him, and it didn’t take long to realize why he had woken up both dreamless and warm.

One strong arm was locked around his waist from behind, and the soft whoosh of breath on the back of his neck was familiar. Porthos’s chest was warm and solid along his spine, the big man’s weight and comforting embrace more than he deserved.

Aramis felt tears spring to his eyes.

He craned his neck, shifting a bit under the blankets. He recalled only laughing as Porthos staggered into the barn, giggling himself, and the mess they had made trying to get up the ladder. Only when D’Artagnan and Athos arrived was he able to negotiate Porthos up the ladder and into bed. He didn’t exactly remember falling asleep beside him, but he couldn’t say he was not comfortable.

Porthos had never been shy about sharing beds. In the Court, he had slept with other orphans often for warmth and safety, a dagger clenched in a tiny fist and the soft, vulnerable organs of his stomach hidden in someone’s back like he was now. Aramis had found it odd.

After years of lonely nights, either beneath his mother’s bed or in his own room with his father, he’d grown accustomed to waking to silence or the rhythmic creak of a suitor above him. It was only after Savoy that he had started to allow it, or even seek out the warmth of another living being beside him at night who wasn’t female.

Porthos claimed it had helped him too, in the unfamiliar and strange environment that was the Garrison, to be reminded of home. Of _safety,_ in its barest, most animal form. Now Aramis understood it. Whenever he felt cold, in his deepest bones, he would seek out the person he trusted more than anything to be at his back while he slept, to keep his ravaged soul company while demons stalked his sleep.

Apparently, D’Artagnan was also fond of the custom. He was draped on Porthos’s other side, using his broad back as a headboard as he sat, arms crossed and chin touching his chest, slumbering deeply. Athos, who shied away from close contact except for in private and extreme settings, slept across from them, a pistol tucked into his grip as he curled on his side facing them, eyes closed and face lax. A bit of drool dribbled from his mouth into his beard.

They had slept far past their usual time. Fresh sunlight wafted into the room, and Aramis recalled that D’Artagnan had said something about meeting the other Musketeers at mid-day. At this rate, they would be late. “Porthos,” Aramis whispered, shaking the arm around his waist reluctantly. Porthos snorted.

“Hmm?” He hummed against Aramis’s ear, without opening his eyes.

“We should get up. The others will be here soon.” Porthos groaned.

“Can’t they _wait?”_ He growled, tightening his grip. He seemed to curl closer around Aramis, which of course jostled D’Artagnan.

“Nooo,” the younger man grumbled, smacking Porthos on the thigh. “Stay still, ‘orthos.”

“Blame Aramis.”

“The others will come looking for us,” Aramis pointed out. “Athos. Help me out here.” Their leader, previously pretending that he’d not been listening the entire time, scowled. He unwound from his position, stretching.

“He’s right, Porthos. It would be rude to…”

“I’m _warm,”_ Porthos argued grumpily. Aramis chuckled.

“Well, then at least let _me_ go,” he said.

“No. You’re what’s makin me warm,” Porthos suddenly rolled unto his back, making D’Artagnan squawk as he was suddenly flattened beneath Porthos. Aramis huffed a semi-panicked laugh as he was now flopped to his back on Porthos’s chest, the other man snuggled deep into his shoulder blades. “My best, best friend,” Porthos continued. Aramis squirmed. Damn it, he was ticklish there and Porthos _knew_ it.

“Athos, help me,” he pleaded. Athos just sighed and made his way to his feet, still stretching.

_“Porthos.”_

“Go to ‘ell, Athos. I’m _warm_ ,” Porthos repeated.

Athos arched a brow, but otherwise didn’t take much offense. “Very well. Then at least return D’Artagnan before he suffocates,” he requested. D’Artagnan let out a series of breathless, muffled noises. Porthos growled again; but shifted a bit to his side so that D’Artagnan could wiggle from beneath him, gasping for breath.

“What about me?” Aramis demanded.

Athos shrugged. “You’re keeping him warm.”

“That’s not my fault!”

“Why do you like Aramis more?” D’Artagnan whined, sounding hurt. “You told me last night that I was your favorite,” Porthos popped one eye open.

“Did I? Don’t remember much of last night, if I’m bein honest,” he admitted. Aramis bit his bottom lip to hold in his own undignified giggle.

“Please stop talking into my back,” he requested, trying to tear the arm trapping him in place away. “Take D’Artagnan. He’s the youngest. I bet he could make you warm too.”

“Sounds romantic,” Athos snickered. D’Artagnan, Aramis and Porthos replied in unison.

“Go to hell, Athos.”

“You fell asleep here,” Porthos pointed out.

“I did not. I fell asleep… _Stop it_ , you devil… In my own bed and Porthos, I swear, if you don’t release me, I’m going to shoot you in the foot.”

“Don’t have a gun.”

“Athos, can you _please_ control your troops?”

“Come along, D’Artagnan, we should check on the horses and I need to rebandage your foot. What were your plans for today?” Athos called, pointedly ignoring his wriggling and pleas for help because he was a damned bastard.

“I didn’t have any,” D’Artagnan admitted, as he hopped to his feet and stepped over the pair of them. “We could play a game, perhaps? Build an obstacle course?”

“With what, apples?”

“Why not?” Athos let out a thoughtful noise as D’Artagnan climbed downstairs. “When you two are ready to behave like adults, we’ll be in the big yard,” he informed them.

“Porthos!” Aramis groaned, as he finally just gave up, flopping helplessly. “Are you still drunk? Is that why you’re making me suffer?”

“What am _I_ doin?”

Aramis arched with a giggle. “Stop talking!”

“Stop askin me questions! I just wanna sleep!”

“ _Porthos,”_ he whined desperately. His brother let out another chuckle before popping his head back over Aramis’s shoulder. He relaxed, relieved to finally have the torturous tickling at an end.

“Still cold?” The bigger man inquired, with quiet compassion. Aramis gave a start.

“How can I be? I have an oafish brother splayed at my back breathing into my ear.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Not as much,” he admitted, with a slight shudder. Porthos let out a sigh against his ear. “Athos had me read to him last night in Spanish. It was very sweet.”

“He can be, when he puts his mind to it,” Porthos supposed, in a kind tone. Aramis tried to think of how often Athos was kind to him, and lately, only found a few examples. He sighed. 

“I suppose. How was the festival?”

“Good,” Porthos rumbled. “Good to see the pup grinning and laughing a bunch. You shoulda been there.”

 _Well, considering…_ “I’m sure we can make him laugh between the two of us.”

“Alright, what’re you and Athos fightin about this time?” Aramis blinked, surprised by the sudden change of subject.

“What makes you think…”

“Don’t insult me, ‘Mis,” Porthos growled. “I know you too well.” Aramis exhaled a slow breath. He should have known that Porthos would pick up on the slight tension between him and Athos.

“It’s my fault,” he confessed instantly, trying to sound light-hearted and casual. “I did something stupid, and Athos is rightfully angry at me for it. I have yet to make amends.”

“I’ll be the judge o that,” Porthos decided. “What’d you do?” It was a good thing that Porthos was not positioned to see his face. Aramis was a decent liar with everyone else, but his oldest friend could always see the half-truths behind his smile. He cringed.

“I can’t say,” Porthos shook him roughly in argument. Aramis clenched his jaw as his brain jostled against his skull. “Trust me, Porthos, it’s best if you don’t know… At least for now. I’d rather not have you both angry at me,” Porthos barked a soft laugh in his ear.

“Always angry at you. Nothing will change,” he assured him.

“I’m afraid I did something very, _very_ stupid,” he clarified, in case Porthos had not heard him the first time. His friend was silent so long that Aramis started to hope that he had finally dropped the subject. Then, the muscles underneath rippled, and a soft question against his ear made tears spring to his eyes.

“Do you love her?” Porthos asked in a whisper. Aramis felt as if his soul had been blown to smithereens.

“Yes, God help me,” he almost sobbed. “But I cannot. _We_ cannot. How did you know that’s what it was?”

Porthos squeezed him in an impenetrable hug. “What else could it be, with you?” He rumbled. Aramis let his head fall back.

“What if I had secretly survived another massacre?”

“Oi, now, don’t joke about that. And don’t you ever, _ever_ keep it a secret if ya do, hear me? I get enough nightmares about that already.”

Well, Aramis knew what that was like. He tried to choke back the lump in his throat, the hot wetness pricking his eyes. “That makes two of us.”

“Is it another noblewoman?” Porthos wondered. Aramis snorted wetly.

“Porthos, I said I won’t say,” he said. “What makes you think I’ll tell you if you guess right?”

“Can I tickle it out of you?” Two fingers jabbed into his sides. Aramis jumped, reached back to grip his fingers.

“I would be indebted if you didn’t try,” he breathed, trying to figure out a way to wiggle free of Porthos’s grip just in case. Would he give up his secret if tickled? Probably. Porthos, thankfully, left him alone.

“C’mon, Aramis, it can’t be that bad. Not as bad as Adele, anyway,” _oh, if only you knew._ Porthos continued, reassuringly. “Not unless you fell in love with the Queen… Wait a minute,” Aramis’s hitched breathing gave him away.

Porthos rolled and then Aramis was dumped unto the mattress beside him. He sat up, and Porthos surged forward to take his face between his hands. “Aramis, tell me I’m still drunk. Tell me I’m not right,” he demanded.

Aramis blinked away tears. “I’m sorry, _mon ami.”_

Porthos shoved him away. “Oh, you bastard!” He exploded; all signs of kindness scoured clean to make way for fury. “The _Queen,_ Aramis? Of _France?_ ”

“It wasn’t planned.”

“You never plan this kinda stuff! That’s the problem! And now Athos is Captain and if you’re caught… Damn it, Aramis, what have you done?” Porthos pinched the bridge of his nose. “Has anything happened?”

“Well….” Aramis rubbed the back of his neck. “The Dauphin was…”

“Nope. Don’t say it. Not aloud,” then Porthos hesitated, his expression one of mingled horror and resignation. “He’s yours, isn’t he?”

His shoulders slumped. “The Queen thinks so.”

Porthos’s chest heaved, once, twice. Suddenly, he turned and slammed a clenched fist against the floor. “You’re a bloody idiot!” He yelled.

“I love her, Porthos,” he pleaded for understanding.

“She’s the _Queen_!”

“And he is my son!” Aramis hissed; his own ire stirred. “Have you any idea what it is to be denied the chance to look upon him? To touch him or even…” He stamped his emotions down with ruthless control. Inhaled a shuddering breath. “Anne and I have sworn never to speak of it again, but it tears me to pieces, Porthos,” he whispered. 

Porthos’s eyes were now wide with worry. “And if you’re caught, you will _literally_ be torn to pieces, Aramis. You and the rest of the regiment. You ever think about that? Promise me you won’t ever step foot in the Louvre again.”

Aramis’s spine snapped erect. “I cannot…!”

“Athos is Captain now,” Porthos interrupted firmly. “You bet your ass you can. What if the Dauphin starts lookin like you? The best way to keep you and them safe is to never…”

“Don’t!” He surged to his feet as anxiety and rage sent another wave of cold through him. “I am a Musketeer! I will _not_ be denied the right to protect my Sovereign!” He shouted.

“ _This_ is how you protect them!” Porthos insisted in the same volume.

“Porthos,” he groaned. Aramis ran hands through his wild curls, dragging his fingers down to pinch the bridge of his nose. “I will not promise you something I cannot possibly accomplish,” he growled.

“You can. You will!” Porthos said, with perfect calm. He stared into his eyes, a strange serenity overcoming him. “Aramis, when we first met, I didn’t trust any man further than I could throw ‘im. You know how hard it is for me to trust, and you’ve never, not once since I tol’ you my name, betrayed my trust. You wouldn’t. If you promise, you’ll do it.”

Aramis nearly dropped to his knees because dammit, he was right. He would die before he broke a promise that he’d made to Porthos, but this… This might kill him. It would undo him. How could Porthos not see that? He shook his head. “You do not know what you’re asking.”

“I do,” Porthos insisted. “And I’m sorry for the pain it’ll cause you, but I am _not_ Athos. He’ll indulge you, because he thinks you can’t control yourself. He thinks he needs to protect you. I know better.”

“Would you have me abandon my child?” He choked out.

“I’d have you protect your son, the best way there is,” Porthos stood, slow as if he were approaching a wild beast. He kept his gaze the entire time. “Him, The Queen, your friends, our regiment. I know it don’t feel good, but it’s how it has to be.”

Aramis’s chest seized. In his mind, he heard Marsac, voice husky and defeated. _This has to end, Aramis._ He now understood how his old friend had felt, staring into the eyes of a desperate brother and knowing he was to die. Porthos may not have had a pistol trained on him, but the blow would kill Aramis anyway.

But of course, _you know that._ He squeezed his eyes closed and relinquished his heart. “I promise,” he whispered. Porthos leaned closer.

“What?”

“I promise, alright?!” He opened his eyes, turned away so that his friend would not see his broken heart. “Damn Porthos,” his voice cracked.

Porthos, wise beyond their years, knew better than to touch him. He pushed himself to his feet with a grunt. “Good,” he decided. He started for the ladder and noticing that Aramis was not behind him, half-turned. “We should catch up with Athos and D’Artagnan,” he suggested, warily. 

“Yes,” Aramis agreed. He didn’t move. He felt as if he had just been beaten within an inch of his life. He stared at the floor, despair a black cloud in his soul. “You go. I’ll… I’ll catch up.”

“Alrigh,” Porthos mumbled, and there was a strand of worry in his voice. He only made his way down the ladder; but halted just before his head vanished over the side. “Mis? You’d have made a good father. Maybe you still can, one day,” he sounded so hopeful. 

“No, Porthos,” he breathed. “I cannot.”


	9. A Torn Seam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys get a visit from fellow Musketeers. Porthos and Athos have a moment and D'Artagnan is once again the youngest and easiest person to pick on.

Porthos’s mind was still churning with the conversation as he entered the big yard. Thoughts and worries collided for space in his mind because _what the hell_ had Aramis been thinkin? _Had_ he been thinkin? And why had Athos kept this from him? The pup he could maybe understand, but _Porthos_?

How long could _any_ of them keep this a secret?

Aramis, the reckless fool, obviously had strong feelings for the Queen. Not to mention his child. What might it do to him to live in Paris, knowing he could never be part of their lives? Porthos was so distracted by his thoughts, he barely heard someone shouting his name. “Porthos!” He looked up.

The big yard was a large circle of beaten down grass and hard-packed dirt where usually crates of supplies and fruit were kept. It was empty today; and held four more bodies besides Athos and D’Artagnan.

Porthos forced a smile. “Oi, you slackers are still alive, then?!” He bellowed in reply. Athos and D’Artagnan gave him odd glances, no doubt noticing his forced cheer. He gave them both a quelling look, especially Athos, and turned back to the others. Araine and Blaise were both older men with young faces.

Araine had a short-cropped mustache that clung to his face like a slug. Blaise’s sparkling green eyes were only accentuated by the long scar across his right eye. Hugo and Cerise, on the other hand, were more distinguished. Like Athos, they had been born into wealthy families. Well-spoken and a bit spoiled, they nonetheless made hearty trouble-making companions and loyal friends. “How are ya, lads?” He asked, thumping them on the back profusely.

“Oh, we’ve no reason to complain,” Araine assured him, accepting the greeting with just as much enthusiasm. “The family that’s hosting us are merchants, travel about and whatnot. We haven’t seen much of ‘em, so we’re glad to see you three. How are you?”

Porthos swiveled to Athos. Their leader hitched his thumbs into his belt and returned the gaze. “We’re… Doing well,” he answered warily.

“Where’s Aramis?” Cerise asked worriedly. He and Aramis, on account of their good looks, were good friends. “He hasn’t fallen ill, has he?” D’Artagnan swiveled around, no doubt concerned about the same thing. _Damn it._ Porthos shook his head. 

“No, no! He’s sleeping in. Spent all night helping build a church. I convinced him to get a little extra rest, is all,” he quickly excused. Athos narrowed his eyes and D’Artagnan snorted; but said nothing.

“Lazy man, that Aramis,” Cerise clucked with a shake of his head. He rubbed his hands together. “Well, what’re we gonna do, lads? Spar a bit, perhaps?” He arched his brows suggestively.

“I have vengeance to enact upon D’Artagnan,” Athos declared. D’Artagnan rolled his eyes.

“Athos, I was joking last night. You know that, right? I was _joking.”_

“Too late to take whatever it was back now, pup,” Araine laughed. He slung an arm around D’Artagnan’s shoulders, guiding him to the center of the dirt path. “I wanna see how long you last.”

“There’s a better patch of dirt behind the barn,” Porthos suggested.

“A brilliant idea! Lead the way, doomed soul,” Blaise teased. D’Artagnan obeyed, grumbling something unflattering about Athos under his breath. Cerise trailed them, joining Araine and Blase in teasing D’Artagnan about his imminent loss. Hugo waltzed at a leisurely pace. 

Athos and Porthos walked behind. “Sleeping in?” Athos inquired, monotone.

Portho’s fists clenched. “Yep,” he popped.

“Porthos,” Athos countered, calm as a riverbed. “We both know that’s a lie. Aramis only sleeps in when a woman is involved and unless he left in the night and came across a tavern of some sort, the women around here are either too young or too old.”

“Well, since you two are so fond of keepin secrets, I figured that I should start too, eh?” He growled in response. Athos sighed.

“Porthos, if this is about Aramis and I…”

Porthos snagged Athos’s upper arm. He swiveled him around, teeth gritted. _Damn it, Athos, I could shake you…_ “How could you not tell me he slept with _the Queen_?” He hissed. Athos went stiffer than a board, eyes wide.

“He told you, I take it?” He whispered.

A sharp nod. “I handled it.”

Now Athos seemed concerned. “What did you do?” He demanded.

Porthos released him and brushed past. “ _Handled_ it,” he reasserted.

“And you’re angry at me?!” Athos continued. “Aramis is the one…!” Porthos swiveled to pin him with a searing gaze. _Don’t,_ he shouted in his mind, the words pounding on the entrance to his mouth. But he couldn’t say it. None of them could.

Athos’s mouth clicked shut. Yet his own gaze was smoldering with untapped frustration. “Are you coming or not, Captain?” Hugo suddenly yelled over his shoulder. Cerise, Araine and D’Artagnan all turned.

“Speaking of which, any news from Paris?” Cerise added. He sounded hopeful, as if Athos could deliver miracles. Porthos had to admit that he had been caught up in many of the same thoughts. Until this, that was.

For a split second, Athos was startled. He looksed around, as if Treveille would metabolize from midair and give them an update. He quickly regained his composure, though. “None that is not more of the same,” he replied softly. His hesitance did not go unnoticed, which in itself spoke to how deeply he was disturbed. Athos was usually perfect at hiding emotions.

“I pray for Captain Treveille, I do,” Blaise intoned. He heaved a sigh and turned to D’Artagnan. He stomped on the ground a few times to ensure that the ground was sturdy. “Are you ready?” He asked. It took Porthos a moment to discern that he was talking to Athos, and not to D’Artagnan.

“What do you think?” Athos asked, as he stalked into the clearing. He eyed the dirt as if it had personally offended him.

Araine, older than Athos by a mere two years, suddenly observed him with wizened eyes. “I think you’re a good man, Athos, but you’ve a long way to go,” he confessed, softly. D’Artagnan and Porthos flanked Athos instinctively as his shoulders tightened at the rare honesty.

Cerise came forward. “And apparently these louts can’t be of any use, sleepin in and making challenges and fumin like bulls. So I volunteer to be your new right-hand,” he declared. Athos’s mouth twitched at the corners.

“Oh, really? And what qualifications do you have, Cerise?” He asked.

“I can scam Porthos under the rug at black-jack…” Porthos gasped.

“Hey! That’s only because you _blatantly_ cheated! I like to be a little discreet bout my activities, is all,” he defended. D’Artagnan snickered until Cerise waved at him.

“I don’t run into danger or under married women’s skirts, like the duckling D’Artagnan here…” he continued. D’Artagnan looked ready to draw his sword.

“Does everyone call me duckling? _Everyone_?”

“And I can shoot bout as well as Aramis,” as soon as the words had left his mouth, a bullet ripped past his ear and landed with a puff of dust in the ground. Cerise jumped halfway out of his skin and swiveled around. Aramis swaggered over to them, twirling a pistol on one finger.

“ _Prove it_ , Cerise,” he harrumphed. He avoided Porthos’s inquiring gaze, instead choosing to squeeze Cerise’s shoulder in good-humor and tip his hat to Blaise. Cerise executed a gentlemanly bow.

“I only meant that I can shoot my…”

“Again I say, _prove it,”_ Aramis interrupted. “And only myself, Porthos and Athos get to refer to D’Artagnan as duckling.”

“How gracious of you to defend me,” D’Artagnan groaned.

“Gentlemen,” Athos interrupted. “I’ll keep my own council on a lieutenant, if it is so necessary that I pick one,” _oh really? And who else you gonna pick?_ Porthos wanted to snort. He hadn’t any doubts it would be him or Aramis. _Then again, a lot of secrets have been kept lately. Maybe we don’t run like we used too._ The thought sent a shiver of remorse through him.

“D’Artagnan, draw your sword,” Athos requested, drawing his own blade and shifting into stance.

“Aramis, I believe we have a contest to settle…” Cerise tried, rubbing his hands together eagerly, but Aramis waved him off.

“Not now, _mon ami._ I want to give our pup directions from the sidelines,” he flopped against the back of the barn, arms crossed, hat pulled low over his eyes. “It’s about time someone knocked Athos down a peg or two,” he called. Porthos cupped hands round his mouth.

“You got ‘im, D’Art!” He yelled. Athos swung his blade in a warning flourish.

“You’ve turned my two oldest friends against me. I’m afraid that calls for blood, D’Artagnan,” he said. Cerise and Jonne hooted. D’Artagnan looked a bit startled as he drew his blade slowly. It let out a low whine as he did so, as slithering a noise as the smile winding across his face. 

“I didn’t know he liked you guys so much,” he confided.

Porthos hadn’t known either. “He’s just feelin dramatic today, is all,” he assured him. “What’d you say to him, anyway?”

“He called us old geezers,” Athos answered before D’Artagnan could.

Aramis brushed some dirt from his hat’s brim. “Take him down, Athos,” he said.

“Little upstart pup. Show ‘im who’s boss, ‘Thos,” Porthos agreed.

“Hey! I thought you were on my side!”

“Sides _change,”_ Porthos called, with a bit more violence than the joke warranted. He glared at the side of Aramis’s head as he said it. Aramis ignored his gaze. Athos arched a brow. D’Artagnan cleared his throat uncomfortably.

“Porthos is right,” Hugo declared. He slapped his leg. “Matter of fact, I propose a challenge. Once Athos is done cracking a hip trying to best D’Artagnan…”

“ _Excuse me?”_

D’Artagnan choked back a giggle, unsuccessfully. Porthos openly smirked. Even Aramis’s mouth quirked at the edges. Hugo continued. “Then we’ll have a contest of our own, huh? Soccer is the next game, methinks.”

“Takes stamina and coordination,” Cerise contemplated, rubbing his chin. Cerise had been born into the wealthy household of one of the King’s councilors. He stood there, graceful as a Grecian statue. “Aim and strength. Grit and gallantry. Perfect time for me to prove my stuff as lieutenant,” D’Artagnan barked a laugh.

“I’m glad to know you have goals and dreams, Cerise.”

“As unattainable as they are,” Aramis agreed. He then gestured to the pup. “Yet there is a flaw with your plan. With that foot, D’Artagnan can’t play,” he pointed out. Cerise chucked a handful of dirt at him, and Aramis spluttered indignantly as he brushed off his hat. Porthos rolled his eyes as Athos only stared between the parties, evidently at a loss for how to react.

“Oh, come on Aramis!” D’Artagnan cried.

“Do you-” he spat out a clump of grass root. Chucked an apple core at Cerise’s head. “- _want_ an infection?” The word sent a ripple of panic down Porthos’s spine. Sickness was one thing, but infection was what had taken his mother from him. He felt a hot surge of protectiveness in his chest. D’Artagnan was the youngest and right now, the only one without his head in his damned ass.

“A Musketeer needs to know how to fight and train while injured,” Blaise pointed out logically. “On the battlefield, he’ll hardly have time to rest up and sip soup, will he?”

“Exactly!” D’Artagnan pushed Athos back with a sudden lash. He moved too fast for the eye to see then, only pausing to add: “I’m not a child, you know.” Porthos opened and closed his mouth, helpless. He glanced at Aramis, for some sort of argument.

Aramis scowled dangerously; arms crossed. Then, “fine, but _don’t_ tear my needlework.”

D’Artagnan, wise little fool, decided that was the time to charge. “En garde!” D’Artagnan hissed as he lurched forward, sharp and quick as a viper. Athos parried him immediately, without looking away from Cerise.

“Now, now, we mustn’t break the laws of chivalry, D’Artagnan,” he drawled.

“Chivalry doesn’t win a fight, Athos,” D’Artagnan grunted as he was driven backwards.

“Oh? And what does?” Athos swiped at D’Artagnan’s legs and the lad jumped over his blade before rolling upright. He favored his uninjured leg, which was clear to all who looked. Porthos wondered if Athos would have mercy on him or push him harder to prove a point.

“I’ve been told it has something to do with biting, kicking, gouging, it’s all good!” Was the grunted reply. The lad took their advice, nabbing Athos by the ankle and dragging him down. They grappled for a moment in the dust.

“I wonder who taught you that,” Athos speared Porthos and Aramis with a sour look. “It certainly wasn’t _me_.”

“You know the Musketeer moto…” Hugo scolded.

“Every man for himself,” Aramis interrupted, and there was an edge to his voice. Porthos did not have to look to know that his eyes were burrowing into the side of his head. He crossed his arms.

“Law of the land,” he agreed, with no more sympathy than a stone.

“Um…” Hugo glanced between them warily. “That’s not what I was going to say, but… I suppose?” he squinted. “Are you two sure you’re feelin alright?”

“We’re fine, Hugo,” Porthos growled, pushing himself away from the barn. He grabbed the other man’s wrist and dragged him after. “C’mon. Last I checked, you needed some practice with jabbing with your left hand.”

“But…”

“All for one, brother,” Porthos reminded him, ignoring the prick of tears in his eyes. “All for one.”


	10. Two Fools and a Secret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos and D'Artagnan are supposed to be filling up water-skins but engage in gossip, secret-sharing, reminiscing and copious amounts of comfort instead.

Three hours passed, and in that time Porthos’s sour mood only intensified. At each lesson, quip and joke from Cerise or Blaise or Hugo, he felt his heart constrict a bit more. Not only did he have to keep Aramis’s dalliances a secret from The whole damn monarchy, but from their fellow Musketeers. Their brothers. The only family that Porthos had known after The Court.

Around mid-day, he and Hugo were panting beneath the growing shadows of the barn. D’Artagnan, thoroughly worn out after his defeat at Athos’s hands, was soaking his injured foot in a bucket of ice water next to them. Athos laid beside him on his back, hat pulled low over his face. Probably so that he did not have to look anyone in the face as he was keepin secrets from them.

Aramis and Blaise, on the other hand, were practicing their shooting blindfolded. Porthos flicked some juice from his face when the fifteenth apple exploded, its guts flung in all direction by the force of Blaise’s bullet. He’d struck it right in the middle.

“Take _that,”_ he said smugly, stuffing the long barrel rifle into Aramis’s waiting grasp. Aramis yawned.

“Was I supposed to act impressed?” He wondered. Blaise rolled his eyes and stood back with crossed arms.

“Right in the middle, Aramis,” he demanded.

“If you insist,” Aramis clucked, settling the blindfold over his eyes. Porthos groaned and slapped at a fly that landed behind his ear. The rifle exploded, sending a flock of sparrows flying away in screeching panic above them. He put a hand on his knee and leveled himself up.

“Too hot for all this noise,” he grumbled. “I’m goin down to the lake.”

“Go ahead,” Hugo grunted. “Its too hot for me to walk that far. But will you fill up my waterskin, brother?” He waved the empty waterskin in the air. Porthos crossed his arms.

“Why is it you only call me brother when you want something?” Hugo flashed a wide smile, exposing a row of half rotted teeth. Hugo liked sweets too much.

“I’ll help. I need to rinse the wound on my foot anyway,” D’Artagnan said, stumbling upright. He leaned against Porthos’s shoulder and accepted the four waterskins thrown his way. Blaise yelped when Aramis landed an exact hit on the apple without making it explode. It merely rocked in place, a large hole in its middle.

“Sorcery!” He accused. Aramis gasped.

“I am a _God-fearing man_ ,” he cried indignantly.

“He’s a devil. I thought you all knew,” Athos argued from beneath his hat.

“Come on, you,” D’Artagnan said before anyone could answer. He tugged at Porthos’s arm and they walked away from the ban, hurrying through the sweltering open air.

“Wonder how the others are doin at the market,” Porthos contemplated, imagining the sweltering horror of the crowded marketplace at this time of day. Maybe he should stroll into town, since he was about to kill someone at the barn; and bring Madame Clara and the children some waterskins as well. D’Artagnan only hummed in relief as they reached the shade of the trees. Dry and warm winds still ruffled through them, smelling of apples, but it was better than sitting in the stagnant heat of the barn.

“Alright,” D’Artagnan said at last. “Should I even ask what this is all about?”

Porthos nearly stumbled, startled by the dark tone. “What?” He demanded. D’Artagnan pinned him with an unimpressed glare.

“First Athos and Aramis were acting like bears with needles in their ass. Now, it’s you _and_ Aramis _and_ Athos. Is there something I should know?” He demanded. Porthos opened his mouth to deny it, instinctive fear and protectiveness like a vice around his throat. He stopped himself just as the words sprung from his tongue.

He couldn’t very well be angry at Athos and Aramis for keeping secrets and then keep some of his own. D’Artagnan was their brother too. Porthos cast a suspicious glance about to make sure no one was within hearing range. When it was safe, he spoke.

“Aramis slept with the Queen,” he blurted. This time, D’Artagnan was the one who stumbled. Porthos grabbed his arm to prevent him from landing face-first in the muck. D’Artagnan straightened with a curse and brushed dirt from the front of his doublet violently. 

_“Please,”_ he begged. “Tell me you’re joking.”

“Fine way to start the morning, isn’t it?”

“Well, that’s…” D’Artagnan massaged his temples. He shook his head. “Insane. Stupid. Irresponsible. Suicidal,” he finally settled on.

“You’re tellin me.”

“But as long as no one ever finds out, then…” Porthos cringed. D’Artagnan paled. He leaned closer, dropping his voice until it was no more than a whisper. “Oh no. The Dauphin?” He asked. Porthos clapped the younger man on the shoulder.

“Congratulations,” he agreed dryly. “Your new King is also your nephew.”

D’Artagnan spent a full two minutes spluttering. “He… I… What are we…” Finally, he threw his arms up in exasperation. “I’m going to kill him,” the younger man swore, eyes flashing. “Does Athos know?”

Porthos nearly threw his head back and laughed. “Ooh, you’ll like this,” he assured D’Artagnan, glad to have an ally in his fury. Was it petty? He couldn’t care less right now. “Athos also kept it a secret for months.”

D’Artagnan gasped. “What was he thinking?” He demanded, rhetorically. Porthos didn’t answer. He knew that sometimes it was easy to forget that Athos made mistakes like the rest of them. He always seemed to have it together, and especially for the pup who worshipped Athos like he was the daisy of his every morning. That was why Porthos was pleased a bit astonished when D’Artagnan kicked out at an apple core on the ground. “I’ll kill them _both!”_ The younger man hissed.

Porthos nodded. “Yeah, that’s how I took it too,” he agreed.

“How long have you known?” D’Artagnan demanded suspiciously. Porthos raised his hands defensively.

“Oi, don’t go lookin at me. I just discovered this mornin’. Cornered Aramis. Don’t worry,” he went on, as D’Art went to continue his rampage. “I handled it.”

Unfairly, this did not seem to assuage their youngest. He merely crossed his arms and harrumphed. “How?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he breathed, remembering the brokenness, the betrayal in Aramis’s eyes when Porthos had forced a promise out of him. His heart panged. He never liked hurting Aramis, but the man was just so damned stubborn… “It’s done now.”

D’Artagnan studied his face for a long second before he jiggled the water skins pointedly. “We should fill these,” ah yeah. Porthos had forgotten, honestly. He followed D’Artagnan further into the cool wood, both of them lured by the rush of clear spring water. He let the silence span on. D’Artagnan probably needed a minute to think things through. He knew that he had.

When the soft rush of water was so near it sounded more like a breathing wave, D’Art spoke again. “I take it you’re upset no one told you earlier?” He ventured.

“Are you jokin’?” Porthos squawked. “I’m upset no one told me as soon as it happened! Aramis has been hanging about the Dauphin and practically on the queen’s skirts since she gave birth. He could have gotten himself, _all of us_ , killed,” he cried.

“That tends to be his self-appointed duty, yes,” D’Artagnan sighed.

“And Athos, with his Nobleman’s conceit. What was he thinkin? He’s just gonna try and keep Aramis on a leash like a pet poodle?” Porthos ranted. “Aramis has to face consequences like a grown man and Athos has to grow a damned spine and…”

D’Artagnan had this incredible ability to see past their facades. It was a gift he employed with near everyone. Porthos suspected it was why he and Constance had taken a liking to each other. Aramis may have been the best shot in France, but when it came to their true thoughts and feelings, none had better accuracy than D’Artagnan. “And you’re upset because…?” He pressed. The grove of trees opened before them like a butterfly unfurling their wings.

The small spring that existed near the barn was now a full-grown river. Deep and slender, it carved through the forest like a sword through armor. The water was white where it frothed round underwater rocks, but it was so clear that Porthos could see the fish suspended in the stream, their mouths opening and closing as they sucked in the turbulent waters.

Porthos exhaled slowly, feeling as if he had grown boulders for lungs. “What if he had been found out, huh?” He demanded, careful to articulate each of his tumultuous feelings clearly. “They were just gonna go to the grave, without tellin me why or how to help? As if anyone would believe I hadn’t known…!” He rolled his eyes.

His own words echoed in his mind. _“I ‘aven’t given up. I’m just the one who has to live with the consequences of someone else giving up for me.”_

“My mother did this to me. She _gave up_ ,” he blurted suddenly. D’Artagnan, kneeling by the river, stilled. “She never told me she was sick until it was too late, aye? Didn’t want me to worry. Then, quicker than lightnin’, she’s on death’s door and I’m alone on the streets…” Tears pricked his eyes at the memory of his own confusion, horror, the stark terror….

He hadn’t deserved that. He’d been a child left to fend for himself because no one thought it prudent to tell him what was going on and how to live without his only family. “I will _not_ stand by and watch more people I care about abandon me for my own damned good! I won’t go through it again! Aramis and Athos know that. They know how I feel bout it,” he declared.

He looked down and met D’Artagnan’s gaze. It was soft, but not pitiful. His shoulders slouched. A sigh. “Maybe we’re growin apart.”

“Porthos,” D’Artagnan scolded, his voice so gentle it was nearly drowned out by the river. “Don’t give up on them because you’re afraid they might give up on you first.”

_“Someone giving up for you…Or you giving up on someone else?”_

“I left my home for this. For them,” he handed D’Artagnan another waterskin to fill up. “I don’t want to have reason to regret it.”

“Me too.”

The admission startled Porthos upright. He studied the younger man before him, injured, weary, letting the waterskins float in the river listlessly, devoid of his usual energy. “D’Art, how are you doin?” He asked, struck by the realization that no one had asked D’Artagnan that yet. “I feel like Me, Athos an’ Aramis been so caught up in our crap we forgot that you’re sufferin too.”

“I mean, I just…” D’Artagnan let the water drain over his knuckles. “Guarded water.” Porthos plopped down next to him, laid a hand on his shoulder over the Pauldron he had earned.

“Something happened, didn’t it?”

D’Artagnan pursed his lips, a furrow opening in his dark brows. “An old man got past us when a mob rushed past. There was so much noise and turmoil we didn’t hear him dive into the well. He was mad with thirst. But, we had to get him out and…” The sigh shuddered through him, then out. Porthos felt the weight of it go through the boy’s spine and cursed himself for a fool. “He looked _just_ like my father.”

“Oh, D’Art,” Porthos murmured. He reached out to squeeze the back of his friend’s neck. D’Artagnan shook his head. His eyes filled with water; but were still steely in the intense light. He was past tears now. Perhaps he had shed them before, while no one was around to hear him break. It was an unforgivable abandonment on their part.

“I left everything he gave me, everything he built _for_ me, to be a Musketeer Porthos. Was that the right decision? Half the time, I’m not even good at being a Musketeer…” He continued.

“Hey!” Porthos cried, slapping him behind the ears lightly. “Who told you that, huh? You’re a fine soldier,” Porthos would kill them personally.

D’Artagnan slapped away his hand. “I let a man drown in well-water! You all still call me duckling!”

Porthos cringed. “Ah, that’s just because you’re the youngest and we like to tease ya, D’Art. Tain’t no indication of your abilities,” he promised. _Gotta tell the others_ , he thought, trying to recall how often they did refer to D’Artagnan like that. _No more duckling talk._

“Maybe I don’t belong here, Porthos. Maybe I never did. Maybe it’s time to quit before I drown,” D’Artagnan murmured.

“Never saw you as one to quit.”

“Never saw you as one to give up on your friends, but like you said, sides change,” D’Artagnan snapped. Porthos scratched the back of his head, beaten. The pup- D’Artagnan – had a point. Porthos could hardly give lectures about perseverance when he had just admitted to the opposite.

“Ah… Don’t listen to me, D’Artagnan,” he said, throwing an arm around D’Artagnan’s shoulders to squeeze. “I’m just being a cynical old bear. I wouldn’t be the man I am without The Musketeers, and I’ve been around long enough to see that you’re headin toward bein one of the best of us. Don’t throw that all away because of a rocky season.”

“Some season,” D’Artagnan muttered. “I want to stay to support Athos, but I won’t stay here if there’s no future for me. It would break my father’s heart.”

Porthos had never met D’Artagnan’s father, but he knew deep in his core that there were very few things the boy could do that would have broken the man’s heart. Your father would be beaming with pride for you, he wanted to tell his friend. Instead, he ventured, “You know I almost quit bein a Musketeer.”

“You _did_?”

A smile. “Yeah. First time I got into a tussle with the Red Guard. Didn’t understand duelin was illegal, see? We do it all the time in the Court. Part of life. But I got thrown in jail for the night. Treveille freed me, of course, but not without havin to concede to something. I got fifteen lashes right across my back,” he patted his left shoulder to demonstrate. Occasionally he still had phantom pain, could feel the lash digging into his skin once more, the humiliation searing behind his eyelids.

“What?” D’Artagnan straightened, confusion clear in the tightening of his jaw. “When I got thrown in jail for dueling, no one…”

Porthos tapped at his hand, dark-skinned, brown, _hated._ “Hm.”

D’Artagnan flinched. “I’m sorry, Porthos.”

Porthos waved away the instinctive rage. “Yeah, well, the wound festered. I was sicker than I’d ever been in my life,” he shuddered at the memory of delusions and sweating.

“I felt like a fool because I couldn’t read back then, so even if someone had handed me the laws, I wouldn’t have known. Knew I wasn’t the best swordsman or marksman there, and so far, all I’d done was cause Treveille trouble and money to keep me alive. I figured eventually the Cap’n would notice I didna know what I was doin and kick me out himself, so I tried to leave.”

“What happened?”

Porthos chuckled softly. “What else? Aramis. He’d been tendin to me for a few days. It’s how we met, actually. He caught me in the staircase. I didn’t know him well, so I tried to lie my way out, told him I was usin the chamber pot. He saw right through me. Always has. He takes something out of a bag at his hip and what do I see? The very same whip that had scarred my back. He handed it to me and said _I stole this from the filth who marked you. When you’re better, we can return it in full. I know you feel alone Porthos, but just know that for as long as you remain here, you will never go unavenged._ Then just strode past me, whistling, like nothin had happened.”

D'Artagnan snickered. “Sounds like him. And that convinced you to stay?” He asked. Porthos gave a half shrug.

“Hey, I wanted my due, see? Besides, ‘Mis took a risk stealing that whip for me. No one asked him too. He gave me back control over my life, I think,” he tapped his bearded chin. “That whip was him tellin me that it was my choice to stay or go, but he promised that if I stayed, I could be part of something bigger than meself.”

“Where’s the whip?”

He knew his grin was vindictive, but the heat of vengeance in his heart flared like sweet honey. “Bottom of the Seine. Along with the man who marked me,” he winked. “Someone must’a drowned him.”

D’Artagnan’s answering grin was just as joyful. Then it fell, replaced by downcast eyes. “But Porthos, I’m not like you…”

“Sure not. But who do _you_ want to be D’Artagnan?”

“I-I want to be someone that would have made my father proud.” Always about the father with them. Porthos was guilty of the same insecurity.

“Lotta ways to do that,” he assured him. “I, for one, am of a mind that he’d be so proud he couldn’t stand lookin at you now. But you’re smart and kind-hearted. You could start an orphanage.”

D’Artagnan gave him a sardonic look. “Very funny. You know children make me nervous. I suppose I want… I want to be part of something bigger than myself. Bigger than a tiny farm in Gascony,” his hand was gentle where it lay on his back. “I want to kill men like the one who marked you.”

“Sounds like you want to be a Musketeer to me.”

A groan. “God help me, I think I do.”

“Nothing to do for it now, you’re one of us,” Porthos sing-songed happily. D’Artagnan smiled and they stood together. “Hey, maybe one of these days we’ll retire to a place like this,” he said, gesturing in the distance to the house and orchards. D’Artagnan’s expression brightened at the prospect. “All of us. Work the land, laugh at old memories. Someday, this’ll be your favorite story to tell your children.”

_Or mine._

Porthos had not found a woman yet. He was not as worried about it as Aramis or D’Artagnan, but that did not mean there was no possibility. What might his own children look like, he wondered.

“Over some apple brandy?” D’Artagnan suggested. Porthos’s stomach grumbled and he shook his head. Groaned as he laid a hand against the protesting organ. 

“I wouldn’t say that. Getting a bit tired of all these apples,” he admitted. It was certainly a more pleasant scent than the death hanging heavy over the streets of Paris, but still the acridity was starting to smart his nose. “Grapes,” he said instead.

“Wine,” D’Artagnan moaned longingly.

Ooh, not a bad idea. “Wine,” he agreed. D’Artagnan flung the heavy waterskins over his shoulder as they started to make their way back where they came.

“So, you won’t give up on us,” D’Artagnan pressed, nudging his arm. “Even though we’re all idiots?”

Porthos let out an explosive exhale. His heart still felt as if bricks had been dumped in it, worry and rage and fear like vices round his lungs. But he had survived feelings like this before. “Ah, well, I’ve been an idiot too and been forgiven,” he supposed, thinking of how he had been when he’d first come to The Musketeers. “What ‘bout you? You gonna stay?”

“No help for it now,” D’Artagnan sighed with a roll of his eyes. “I’m one of you fools, apparently,” that was how Porthos felt, too, yeah.

“All for one,” this time when he said it, he believed it. The truth of it soothed his nervous soul. D’Artagnan’s eyes twinkled.

“And one for all.”


	11. And They Went

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Boys are Finally introduced to their future selves, and take part in some shenanigans.

Athos had to admit that with Aramis, Porthos and D’Artagnan gone, he had a few minutes of unabashed quiet. Blasé and Hugo were more than happy to speak quietly between themselves, allowing Athos to take a much-needed nap. He dreamt of Paris in the spring, how the market stands would be full of fresh fruits and vegetables and flowers.

Last spring, he had allowed Porthos and Aramis to drag him along to a new candy shop, where the fabled gems of Belgian chocolate had arrived. D’Artagnan had jogged along after them, grinning and teasing as naturally as if he had always been part of their team. Of course, it had fallen to Athos and his sizeable purse to pay for the majority of their sweets, but he hadn’t even complained. The flowers had been in late bloom, and their petals spun and twirled around them as they waltzed about town.

That night, they had tried each candy, laughing and choking on the delicate tastes in between sips of wine. Aramis had even declined the company of a beautiful woman, Athos hadn’t gotten himself drunk, D’Artagnan had let someone impugn his honor and walk away alive, and Porthos had waved off a game of cards, such had been their good spirits.

He was woken from the dream-memory by a soft pat on his shoulder. Athos’s eyes snapped open and he inhaled a deep breath, immediately sneezing as bits of grass tickled his nostrils. “In the…!” He cursed, snapping uprtight to claw at his nose and watering eyes. Blasé recoiled with an apologetic cringe.

“Ooh, sorry Athos. I just thought you’d want some water,” he said. Athos, normally, would have appreciated the sentiment. At that moment though, he just gave Blaise his most heated glare. Above them, Porthos and D’Artagnan had apparently returned. No wonder his peace was at an end.

“Hey, no more shootin apples?” Porthos was asking, with a glance down at Athos. There was no more ire in his gaze. In fact, he looked… Content. He even flashed a roguish smile at Athos’s misery.

Athos shook his head and looked around. D’Artagnan sat on the ground rewrapping the bandage around his foot. It was clear of blood and puss, and the skin was nearly translucent, but it was healing. The other two Musketeers were guzzling down cool water from the skins they’d brought back. Blaise offered Athos his, and he took it with a grateful swig.

“Worms came outta one and got stuck in Cerise’s hair,” Hugo replied. “He wanted to battle Aramis to the death, but it’s too hot to die.”

“So glad the heat was what stopped ‘em,” Porthos supposed, dry as ever. Athos finished his water and swiped it from his moustache. “So where are they?”

“Went to go find some food. Cool food.”

Athos could have laughed at that one. As it was, he snatched the hat from his chest and used it to fan himself. “I doubt they’ll find anything but applesauce.”

“Have a little faith, ‘Thos,” D’Artagnan teased, and hadn’t he been in a moond a few moments ago, too? How long has Athos been out, exactly?

No sooner had the words fled his mouth that the hairs on Athos’s arm seared upright. He swiveled around from his spot on the ground and squinted into the sun. Four shadows were coming at them from the far side of the barn.

“Shootin my apples, were we?” Josue bellowed. Athos relaxed and waved down Hugo and Cerise, both of whom had drawn their blades.

Porthos mumbled something beneath his breath about fidgety fingers. “Thank goodness!” Josue continued, oblivious to his near-death experience. Or perhaps he had been a soldier for so long he was no longer spooked easily at death’s sudden appearances. “That way, my wife can’t force any more of them into me! Shoot away, lads! You’ll lose your hearing though!” Josue threw his head back, chuckling.

The three men trailing him rolled their eyes in unison. “You never had good hearing, you imbecile,” one of them pointed out. Athos studied the newcomers. He had seen them walking about the house; and had assumed they were siblings to either Clara or Josue.

“Ah, that’s true, I’m afraid,” Josue wiped away a tear at his own joke, then turned his sparkling eyes to the other Musketeers. “Well, gentlemen, I see you’ve brought some reinforcements.”

Athos nodded. “Fellow Musketeers, Josue. This is Hugo and Blaise,” he gestured to their fellow Musketeers, who had bowed to Josue during their introduction. “Men, may I introduce our fine host, Monsieur Josue Baptiste-Jean.”

“You have a beautiful home, monsieur,” Hugo complimented with Athos’s exact charm. Josue snorted.

“Pish posh! I have a beautiful _life,_ the house is only a luxury item,” he declared in his booming voice. The others nodded in agreement, though Athos had not failed to see how they cast suspicious glances at the Musketeers. He remembered with a start that they were all armed. “It’s an honor to meet you, gentlemen. Where’s Aramis?”

“Off to find food.”

“Of which I have found and demand that Cerise surrender to my superior guiles!” Someone shouted. They all swiveled, more than just one weapon drawn, to find Aramis marching toward them with a large plate balanced on one hand. A small pack of dogs whined and yipped at his legs. Daniel stumbled after him, trying in vain to hold a large pistol in his small hands. Cerise was carrying a bucket of mandarins.

“Are those _Danishes?”_ Porthos demanded. Athos stared. Indeed, on Aramis’s plate were about seven danishes, colorful and fluffy. His stomach grumbled.

Aramis hummed affirmative. “Madame Clara and the children arrived just as we were rummaging through the pantry. They brought gifts enough for us all,” he explained.

He handed the plate to Hugo as Blaise helped Cerise lower the bucket, rummaging through the fruits to find the largest one. Daniel bumped into Aramis’s back legs, saved from a fall only by Aramis’s steady hand on his shoulder. “Ah, hello Josue. How’s your leg?”

“I’m doin better now, thank you Aramis. _These_ are my brothers, the ones I have been bragging about but never wanted to show their faces,” he said, throwing an arm around the man to his left.

Daniel looked up. “Uncles!” He squealed, abandoning Aramis to pounce at the closest man. The grizzled older man, a full head taller than Josue manhandled Daniel over one shoulder, much to the child’s screeching delight, and snorted.

“Oh, quiet you! We know what your type of bragging looks like,” _he has an accent,_ Athos realized. _But I can’t pinpoint it. Spain? The Netherlands?_ Whatever it was. He’d heard it before at Court.

“This large Dutch man is Alfonse,” Josue continued. Porthos nodded.

“’Tis rare to see a Dutch with red hair,” he observed. The older man’s head was a deep maroon color, like dried blood. Even the grizzled silver of his long beard was interspersed with streaks of red. His eyes, greener than emeralds, were intense and sharp.

“My mother claims I was struck by lightning and the fire was burned into my veins,” Alfonse informed them proudly.

“I thought you were the child of the devil,” another murmured. Alfonse glared.

“This is the middle child, Prewitt, though we just call him wit. You can guess why,” Josue laughed. Prewitt seemed the youngest of them all. He had that unnaturally young face, like than of an imp. The only intimidating part of him was the long scar running across his face, a zagging blemish that started above his upper lip and vanished into his beard, making his lips curdle at the ends. Blonde hair was tied into a cascading ponytail and freckles adorned his cheeks.

“And this scoundrel is Mathiez. We were the ones to start this brotherhood, many more years ago than you fine youngsters have seen.”

“What’re you callin them youngsters for?” Mathiez demanded, he had serious chocolate eyes. On his left hand, the spot where his pinky had been was a gaping hole with inflamed skin. The gold doublet he wore only accentuated his caramel skin.

“We’re young. Or, at least, _I_ am,” Josue spluttered indignantly. Daniel giggled as Mathiez spun him back to his feet. Daniel hopped to embrace Prewitt, who subjected him to similar treatment. “It’s a pleasure to meet you Musketeers. Doing a tad bit of training, I see.”

“We were just takin’ a rest from training, actually,” Blasé explained.

“You’re all too young for breaks!” Alfonse griped, as he swept aside the apple chucks from the barrel. He sat on it; one knee propped up. “When I was your age, I didn’t even sit down!”

“Maybe that’s why your knees are bad, fool,” Prewitt informed him. Alfonse slapped him upside the head. Athos briefly wondered if it worked, because if it did, Aramis and D’Artagnan were in for plenty of headaches courtesy of his sword hand.

“We were actually going to play a game of soccer in a moment, monsieur’s. Would you like to join?” Cerise asked. Josue brightened as if someone had just offered him another plot of land.

“Of course!”

“Josue, your leg,” Mathiez scolded.

“I got a head, don’t I?”

“Debatable.”

This only inspired a laugh from their host. He slapped his brother on the chest with the back of his hand. “Quiet, you mother-hen! I want to feel young again.”

“What a capricious lie it will be.”

“So far as I can see, Master Josue could defeat us all,” Athos broached, trying to stall the teasing before it got out of hand. _Is this how Treveille feels whenever he’s debriefing us?_ He wondered, with a pang. He would never know now.

“Indeed, sir, we’d love to have you aboard!” Hugo held up a hand. “A quick stipulation though? You four,” he jabbed an accusing finger at Athos, Aramis, Porthos and him. “Cannot be on the same team. Separate yourselves!”

Prewitt pretended to gasp. “You’d separate soul brothers?” He demanded.

Hugo snorted. “I’d make sure _the charlatans_ cannot scheme together,” he corrected.

“Charlatans?” Athos drawled. Aramis put a hand to his heart.

“Us?”

“Surely you jest,” D’Artagnan agreed. Porthos just crossed his arms.

“I’d consider myself more of a con-man, actually,” he argued. Athos glanced at him from the corner of his eyes. He wanted to agree; but was not sure whether he was yet back in Porthos’s good graces.

“Why do you get to be in charge anyway, Hugo?”

Hugo barked a laugh, throwing his head back. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m the referee,” he stepped to the side, arms crossed. “I’m the only one familiar with your trickery. Nothing gets past me,” he tapped his nose. Athos wondered how much of that was true. Treveille did often assign Hugo to complex missions, ones that required someone adept at seeing the _fine lines._

“I wanna see you play!” Daniel cried from the ground. He was on his feet before anyone could say otherwise, rushing toward the big house. “I’ll get mama and the girls!” He called over his shoulder.

“Oh no. Now our defeat is to be _memorialized,”_ Alfonse groaned, slapping his forehead. “Well, what are our teams, then?”

“I get Aramis!” Josue declared.

“Please,” Athos pleaded. “Keep him.”

“Unappreciated!” Aramis harrumphed, marching over to stand beside Josue. “Fine. I want Cerise then, too, and Mathiez.”

“I’m over here,” Porthos decided, joining Aramis next to Josue. He nodded to the marksman, who arched his brow wonderingly. “For old times’ sake.” Aramis shrugged. _Is this a trick?_ Athos wondered, a bit worriedly. But when he studied Porthos’s expression, it showed nothing but genuine excitement.

“That means that its me, Athos, Prewitt, Blasé and Alfonse,” said D’Artagnan. He unbuckled his sword from its position on his waist. “It will only get in the way,” he explained when Blasé gave him a confused look. The other Musketeers did likewise as the older men cleared the field, kicking away the barrel and ushering the dogs away.

“Josue!” Madame Clara shouted. Everyone except the older man turned in time to see Madame Clara following Daniel out onto the field. Daniel carried a large brown ball. Behind her, the rest of the family lugged themselves from the coolness of the house with blankets, pitchers of ice water and baskets of food. Clara’s light orange dress shuttered in the breeze, wrapping around her legs and making her stumble to the side. “What are you old fools doing!?”

“I wanna see granda play soccer!” Alanna shrieked.

“We’ve got him Clara! Don’t worry!” Prewitt assured her. She did not look any more comforted by his assurance than she had a moment before. She lightly slapped her husband’s shoulder as she marched past. The gaggle of family members took up positions in the shade.

“I’m not going to hear a word of complaint when your leg is sore in the morning!” She hissed. Josue dipped his head in acquiescence, eyes sparkling. Clara huffed and sat down.

Aramis and the others were already taking up places on the other side of the field. Daniel ran over to set the ball in the middle, then scurried away. Athos’s stomach fluttered. It had been years since he had last played soccer. What’s more, it had been quite some time since he had last seen his brother’s so… Carefree. When they returned to Paris, they may never have this opportunity again.

_I may as well enjoy it while it lasts._

D’Artagnan nudged his arm, snickering deviously. “What are you waiting for?!” Hugo yelled from the sidelines as the two opposing teams squared off, eyes dancing between their opponents and the ball daringly. “Go!”

They went.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this is coming late! I've been so caught up with my other fics that I completely forgot this one. But I hope this chapter made up fro my tardiness.


	12. Head Monkey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a Fierce Soccer match, heartfelt forgiveness, and then the brothers attempt to drown each other. In that Order.

“GO, MISSY, GO!” Alanna bellowed; fingers cupped around her mouth. She screamed so loudly that Athos actually cringed, and Josue didn’t even need it repeated. Not that the other man was paying his family any heed. The moment the game had begun, he had become someone else completely. Fierce, determined, bold and loud. Athos felt as if he were finally seeing the soldier that Treveille had once known.

They had been playing for close to an hour now, and with their score lying neck and neck, the next goal would be the winner. He leaned over and put his hands on his knees. The oppressive heat had not dimmed at all. Athos’s nice new shirt was now soaked with sweat and dirt.

“You good there, old man?” D’Artagnan gasped as he jogged behind him. He clapped Athos on the shoulder. He straightened and gave the younger man a dour glare.

“I’m merely trying to fool the enemy, _mon frere_ ,” he lied. D’Artagnan’s teeth flashed in a wide grin. He stood defensively, legs apart, chest heaving and eyes locked on the rugged ball that Porthos was mockingly passing between both feet. The other team surrounded him like stalking wolves, never taking their eyes off Athos’s team on the other side. The air itself held its breath.

“Kick the ball, Porthos!” D’Artagnan hollered irritably.

“Yes, you scared lad?!” Alfonse added from where he paced in front of the goal, having been banished there by his own brothers for his temper. Porthos arched his brow at them and stilled the ball beneath his left heel.

“Impatient, aren’t we?” He quipped. He had long shed his own shirt. His broad chest was slick with sweat. He crossed his arms, proud as a bull. Athos rolled his eyes.

“Porthos!”

“I think he’s tryin to order me around,” Porthos pretended to gasp. He swiveled to Aramis, who was watching the exchange boredily. Somewhere he had found a long stalk of wheat and he chewed the end. “Is he tryin to make that _an order_ , d’ye think ‘Mis?”

Aramis shrugged. “I don’t know, but my devotees are waiting for our victory,” he jerked a head to indicate Alanna and Daniel. Diana sat in the shade, back against the tree. Every so often, she would look up, but for the most part she was absorbed in another book. Probably about geometry or something equally as difficult.

“Cocky, aren’t they?” Prewitt observed, voice high from adrenaline. “Its as if they forget we’re at the same number of points. Or, perhaps,” he arched one witty brow. “They are afraid to pass over the ball because they know defeat is imminent?” The crowd on the sidelines aww’ed at the clear challenge. Aramis and Porthos exchanged a glance, competitiveness sparking between them. Athos grinned.

There it was.

Porthos charged with a roar, his teammates right on his heels. Instead of standing in his way (a dangerous venture in itself) he and D’Artagnan cleared the way. Porthos was strong, but not particularly quick. So instead of trying to get flattened, Athos moved to the side, gauged the distance, and lunged for Porthos’s feet with a cry.

The larger man easily evaded him, but Athos had caught his attention. Prewitt was their fastest runner. He dashed past, stealing the ball and taking off down the opposite side of the field. Porthos growled in frustration.

“Guard him!” Athos barked at Blaise, already knowing that the other team would need to counterattack. They would probably send Cerise, who had both the stamina and aim to take the ball to Aramis, who could easily kick it into the goal from afar.

Then he ran to catch up with Prewitt. The older man was nearing the goal across the field when Josue suddenly stepped into his path, his cane held above his head. Prewitt tried to dodge him, but their host smirked and leaned over, tugging Prewitt’s feet from under him with the slim part of his stick. Prewitt went down like a runaway wheel, flipping head over heels in the grass.

“Josue!” He coughed when he looked up again, slamming a fist down. “You cheat! Hugo, isn’t that cheating?!”

Hugo, on the sidelines, smiled manically and shrugged. “I saw nothing.”

“Sorry brother!” Josue laughed, retreating back to his place in front of the goal.

“Yeah da! Get him!” One of the older sons whooped.

“Whose side are you on nephew!?” Prewitt demanded.

Josue smiled at their approaching party and passed the ball to Cerise, but Blaise was anticipating the move. He slid into place and there was a short one-legged battle as he and Cerise tried to take control of the ball, kicking it against each other’s knees and ankles as they attempted to get it downfield.

“Oh no you don’t!” Porthos gasped, slamming into D’Artagnan before he could intervene. They went down like two puppies, yelping and flailing.

Prewitt skid to a halt, facing off against Mathiez. The two men circled each other, smirking, trying to get past the other’s defenses. It looked like a rather insane ballroom dance. “Move outta my way, little rat!” Mathiez yelled.

“You first, scoundrel!”

 _I think I know…_ Athos scrambled backwards as Aramis brushed past him. He saw Diana glance up as his brother swayed in front of the battle waging behind him. “You’ll have to get past me, Athos,” the other man dared, eyes dancing.

“Easy enough,” Athos supposed in a drawl. “I need only someone beautiful to distract you.” For a second after he said it, Athos feared that Aramis might construe this as a subtle nag on his affair with the Queen. But the game was too all-consuming for politics. Aramis cocked his head, eyes innocent.

“Why don’t you think I’m _already_ staring at a beautiful person?” He simpered. Athos was too used to Aramis’s ways to be put-off. He only snorted and tried to sprint past his right. Aramis neatly stepped in his way. He scowled.

“Are you _flirting_ with me, Aramis? I promise, you aren’t my type.”

“That’s what they all say at first,” Aramis clucked. At that moment, Blaise finally managed to trip Cerise, sending him crashing to the ground. Blaise jumped over him, the ball newly in his control.

“GO! Go!” Madame Clara hollered. A strand of her hair had come undone, and a gust of wind flattened it against her nose and cheeks as she stood and waved. The dogs yowled excitedly, jumping up and down, kept back only by strong and restraining hands. Even Diana had abandoned her novel in her lap, tracking the game with keen eyes.

Athos and Aramis were after Blaise like a shot. “Its mine!” Aramis shouted, pushing past him to steal the ball. Athos grabbed him around the waist, and with a grunt of effort, lifted the other man off his feet. Seeing as how this had not been planned, he and Aramis quickly tumbled into the grass and were nearly trampled by the others as they followed the ball.

Athos looked up, dazed, to find Aramis lying across his stomach, laughing so hard tears shone on his cheeks. Grass shards tickled his lashes and nose. He swiped them away and tapped Aramis’s shoulder.

“I’d prefer you _at least_ buy me a drink first,” he drawled. This only served to make Aramis laugh even harder. Athos gave up and let himself sink into the field, panting as the sun beat down upon them both. He couldn’t care less.

At last, there was shouting. The audience rushed onto the field, shouting and congratulating the winners. A shadow passed over them. “Well, Aramis,” Porthos declared as he marched over with D’Artagnan and Hugo in tow. He offered a hand and tugged Aramis upright. Athos accepted D’artagnan’s hand for the same treatment. “We’ve had better days.”

“Ah, we won in spirit, _mon ami_ ,” Aramis breathed, slapping Porthos on the back as Prewitt and Alfonse mocked their defeated brothers mercilessly. Blaise and Cerise were laughing over something further away, and Hugo seemed enamored with the dogs. It was a good day. “There will be other contests.”

“I still know who I’d rather have at my back during a fight,” D’Artagnan proclaimed, magnanimously. He eyed the fresh water and cucumbers enviously. Athos was trying his hardest not to look in that direction.

“Though maybe not so close next time, Aramis,” he suggested. 

“I’ll buy drinks first,” Aramis agreed, with a chuckle. He shielded his eyes, gaze dancing over Athos’s sunburnt shoulders. “Ah, we need to get some lotion on you my friend. You’ll be peeling for days. Come, come, the cucumbers are good for the skin.”

Athos nodded gratefully. Now that the game was concluded, the minor aches and pains of the day were making themselves known. He could also smell himself. “A bath wouldn’t go amiss either,” he gagged.

“Hey! You sayin we stink?” Porthos tried to nag him in a headlock, still rowdy from the game. Athos spun away.

“I mean, you’re not the only ones,” D’Artagnan laughed as they headed towards the picnic leftovers. He waved a hand at the other three Musketeers, standing round in the shade. “Cerise! Blaise! Good game, fellows.”

Blaise grinned and accepted their hardy handshakes. Cerise and Aramis exchanged smirks and furrowed brows. They had a language all their own that Athos did not want to puzzle out. Hugo and Porthos clapped each other in the back. No one, to his infinite gratitude, touched his sunburnt back or shoulders. “You as well, Inseperables.”

“Would you like to come inside for dinner, gentlemen?” Josue inquired as he passed. Alanna handed him a handful of cucumbers from the plate she carried. Athos dipped his head in thanks. Blaise turned and bowed at the waist.

“No. We thank you kindly for letting us impose on your home like this, sir, but we’d better start back to our own safehouse now,” he said. His stomach twanged with disappointment. Seeing their friends had been a welcome change, and the next time they would see them would be…

Paris. And the carnage that would reveal. 

He shook his head. Josue had an arm wrapped about his wife and eldest son’s shoulders. Despite his evident limp, he was grinning, eyes bright with life. “Ah, well, know that you’re always welcome in my home,” he called. He stumbled badly, and Clara grunted out something that sounded like an insult. “Godspeed to you!”

“Come on, papa,” the eldest heckled. “We can’t hold you up forever.”

Josue was still shouting about how much weight he’d lost and the apparent strength his eldest had not retained as they hobbled back to the big house. Diana hesitated, watching Athos over her shoulder expectantly. Athos smiled and waved her away. They would be in momentarily. She nodded and scampered off after her family. 

“Well,” Athos’s shoulders lifted in a heavy sigh. Aramis started planting the cucumbers against his burning skin, clucking softly. “I suppose we’ll see you back at The Garrison,” Hugo and Blasé looked momentarily horrified. Cerise smiled sadly.

“Yes,” he cocked his head. “Try not to look so worried, Athos. Whatever we face there, we’ll face it together. As we always have.”

_That’s what I’m worried about._

He shook his head. “Have a safe journey.” The others murmured similar sentiments, and with another look of resignation, the other Musketeers took their leave. Athos stood in the shade with his brothers for a long moment, heart pounding.

The happiness of the day refused to unhook its teeth from him, but once more _his duty_ cast long shadows across it. Porthos exhaled slowly.

“Missy!” That was Alanna running toward them. She promptly attached herself to Aramis’s leg like a leach. She was tall enough to headbutt his chin, wrapping gangly arms around his waist. “Wash up and join us for dinner! The stars will be out tonight!”

Aramis’s face transformed immediately; the brief despair replaced by charm. Athos marveled at his ability to do that. He couldn’t help but broadcast his moroseness for the whole world to see. “We wouldn’t miss it for the world, madame! Did you woo that scoundrel Paul?” He inquired. Alanna blushed scarlet.

“Ooh, I think he was wooed, ‘Mis!” Porthos teased.

“Stop it!’ Alanna yelled, shoving Aramis with surprising strength. He stumbled into D’Artagnan with extreme exaggeration. “I’m not telling!” With a harrumph, she started to sashay in the direction of the house, pausing only briefly to smirk over her shoulder. “But he may have asked my father to court me.”

She ran away from Aramis’s and Porthos’s congratulatory whoops. “Another happy ending accomplished by none other than _moi_ ,” Aramis declared. Athos rolled his eyes.

“Congratulations,” he drawled. “You still need a good dunking in the river, though.” D’Artagnan jabbed an elbow into Aramis’s ribs.

“I’ll race you there,” he dared.

“No…!” Athos began, but Aramis was already squawking with indignation.

“Your foot, pup!” He cried. Athos had been about to point out that they were both very liable to slip in some mud and break their god-forsaken necks, but he supposed Aramis had a point as well. D’Artagnan made a dismissive noise in the back of his throat.

“Oh, come off it, mother hen! It’s pretty much fully healed,” he tickled the back of Aramis’ neck playfully, provoking a violent shiver and yelp. “What’s wrong? Afraid you’ll lose for a second time tonight?”

Aramis’s sarcasm was contained within a single quelling glare, thankfully. For a moment Athos thought he might be responsible and… “Ready set go!” _Of course not._

“Aramis!” D’Artagnan yelled, taking off after their brother. Porthos and Athos followed at a more leisurely pace. Athos caught a stray cucumber that slid from his back. It was slimy to the touch, but the freshness so relieving he only put it back where it came from.

“Great,” Athos groaned. “They still have energy. They’re like puppies.” Porthos chuckled. Athos glanced at him from the corner of his eyes. “So tell me something, are you still angry with me?”

Porthos’s eyes slid to regard him silently for a moment. “For keeping Aramis’s dalliances a secret?” Athos nodded. “No. I know you were only tryin to protect me,” oh good. Athos had not gone more than three days with Porthos angry at him before. He hadn’t been looking forward to it.

Before he could express his relief, however, Porthos continued in a stern tone. “Still, Athos, you’ve gotta understand, you and Aramis and D’Artagnan are all I have in this world. If there’s danger afoot, you’ve _gotta_ tell me. I’m not gonna lose you two on account of your foolishness.”

“I understand,” he assured him. Because he did. Because he felt the same. “I’m glad you know. I need another hand in keeping Aramis in line.”

A snort from the larger man. “I’ve never been able to do it either, what makes you think that will have changed now?”

 _We can always hope_ , Athos thought dryly. “Besides, I think he knows what he’s done is wrong. He’s stronger than you think. He won’t risk us all.”

If only that were enough. But Athos had lived in the aristocracy longer than Porthos, knew how easy it was for secrets to get out. What was more, he knew how much a secret like this was worth to him, and what he would do to make sure it was kept from evil ears. That frightened him.

But today, they were all alive and he was forgiven. His anxieties could rest for now. “Once again, Porthos, I wish I had your large heart.”

“Oh, you do. You just insist on keeping it on a leash. Lighten up a little, will ya?” They finally came across the river; and found Aramis and D’Artagnan engaged in a fierce splashing contest. They would probably empty out the stream of water with as much water as they were wasting trying to soak each other. “Hey, I said bath, not _battle_ you fools!” Porthos bellowed.

Athos pinched the bridge of his nose. D’Artagnan straightened instinctively, shocked out of his tomfoolery by the authority in Porthos’s tone. He jabbed an accusing finger at the second party. “It was Aramis!”

At the same time, Aramis flicked water from his hair and pointed to the pup. “It was D’Artagnan!”

“I will drown you both _right now_ ,” Porthos threatened. He waded into the river. Athos picked his way to the other side of the river. He didn’t need to be nearby to understand what was about to happen. A second later, the waters _heaved_ as someone was dunked. Porthos came up spluttering. “Fine! We gonna do it like that then?!”

Athos hissed as he let the water run over his shoulders and back. The cucumbers floated downstream, right into the childish men he called brothers. A few droplets of water hit his forehead from their attempts to drown each other. “We’re going to be late for dinner,” he pointed out calmly, keeping a fair distance from the proceedings.

No one answered him. Or heard him, more than likely. They were all too busy laughing and coughing up water. Athos took the opportunity to scrub the sweat from his hair. After a few more moments, Aramis finally plopped onto shore, waving his deserted shirt as a sign of defeat. “I yield! I yield!” He wheezed when Porthos grabbed his ankles to yank him back into the river. 

“Me too,” D’Artagnan gasped.

“Thought so,” Porthos harrumphed, slapping their youngest back into the pool. D’Artagnan let himself float, arms and legs spread like a dead starfish.

Athos crossed his arms. “Can we _go_ now? I’m starving.”

“See what you idiots have done?” Porthos grouched, heaving himself from the river. “Now Athos is starving.”

“Athos can’t be starving. He only needs to drink wine and lecture Aramis to stay alive,” D’Artagnan pretended to gasp. Athos chucked a drenched sock at his face in retaliation.

"I can have you court-martialed now, you know," he sniped. 

"You'd miss me," D'Artagnan replied, with so much conviction that Athos wondered if he had, indeed, gone so astray from his upbringing that _everyone_ knew he couldn't function without these men. Could the King tell, the Queen? "Besides, I would just hang around the Garrison and convince Serge to feed me anyway. Like I did when I first arrived in Paris."

"He really would, Athos," Aramis counseled. "Best just to keep him around. If you want to practice your new authority, you can try to give me an order and court-martial me when I end up disobeying you," the way he phrased it made it sound as if this was a great favor he'd just offered. Athos gave him a dry look. It couldn't have been a favor since it was already his _life_. 

"I'd pay for your freedom, Aramis," Porthos promised. "Money wouldn't be legally gotten, though."

"Why do I put up with you three?" He grumbled. He pulled himself out of the river, and shivered when a sudden burst of wind speckled his skin with goosebumps. "It's like being put in a cage with monkeys." Then he turned, and the pure affection he saw in the eyes of the men he revered, was enough to remind him. He couldn't even _argue_ when they smiled at him like that. Athos sighed in defeat. "I suppose you're right," he said in response to their unspoken answers.

"I do very much enjoy being head monkey, anyway." 


	13. The Setting Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys receive some hard news from Paris. Athos doesn't want command for good reason. A brotherhood accepts its end.

News from Paris arrived with the morning dew.

Porthos was the only one in the barn when it happened. He sat on the bottom of the ladder polishing his pistol. He’d not had much cause to use it of late, but he’d promised Daniel the night before that he would help teach him how to hold a pistol by himself.

Apparently, Aramis’s teachings weren’t doing much for the boy. Probably because guns and their machinations came so easily to his friend that his teaching consisted of hold the _rifle, aim and fire_. His was an art he barely knew how to control himself. Porthos was half convinced that Aramis had been born with a musket in hand.

A cool breeze had just wafted past Porthos’s face when he heard light footsteps crunch the grass outside. A second later, springy curls popped their head inside the barn. “Porthos?” He looked up from his work and smiled.

“Ah, Madame Clara. How are you?” He asked. Taking his greeting as an invitation, the older woman stepped fully into the barn. A strand of her curly hair caught a ray of sunlight and turned gold. It swerved into her eyes, which were pinched at the sides with anxiety.

“I’m fine, thank you,” she waved a small envelope, shifting weight uncomfortably from foot to foot. “I have a letter here from Paris.” Porthos’s heart skipped a beat.

Paris.

City of corpses.

Was it an order for them to return? News of Treveille, of The Court? Porthos held out his hand, numbly, exhaling a slow breath to ease the clench of his stomach. Clara shuffled forward to hand him the crumpled and dirt-stained paper.

It looked as if it had been buried underground before being sent, which very well could have been the case. Sometimes secret messages were buried for a few days before they could be safely delivered to their intended.

Porthos held it between his thumb and forefinger as if it were a soggy diaper. His heart skipped a beat as he noticed the penmanship of the addressee. This wasn’t from Treveille.

It was from Constance.

According to military law, he should give this to Athos, and only him. Porthos debated whether he should. “Is the messenger who brought it still here?” He asked. Clara shook her head, watching him with wide eyes.

“No. I didn’t even see them. This was left on the front stoop.”

Porthos doubted Constance would have traveled all this way herself. Then again, she was supposed to be in Marseille with the Queen. Had she been sent back to Paris? Why else would she write Athos a letter?

 _Unless, she’s delivering terrible news._ That could range from the King deciding to disband the Musketeers to Treveille’s death to Aramis being discovered. Porthos bit his bottom lip, twirling the envelope in his hands. The desire to protect his brothers warred with his own unease.

“Where are the others?” She asked. He glanced up at Clara, who was watching him keenly.

Clara matched his weariness in her stance, and Porthos was reminded that this was a woman who had seen war and death. Maybe not as he had seen it, but she’d lived in a house of veterans for too long not to have had a taste of it.

She swept fingers through her hair, yanking it back and away from her face. A few straggles of silver slipped into her palms. “Athos is beneath the big tree, helping Diana study Greek. D’Artagnan and Prewitt are dueling with swords. It’s just a mock duel, see,” he assured her when Clara screwed her lips into a thin line. She nodded. “I don’t know ‘bout Aramis.” Last time he had seen his friend had been during their impromptu breakfast of eggs and apple tart. 

“He’s swapping war stories with Josue and Mathiez,” she answered.

He sighed and slipped the envelope into his shirt. Of course that was what Aramis was doing, because this place was like paradise. Filled with light and wonder and children. It banished any shadows of Aramis’s previous exploits.

Now they would ride back, to the valley of death.

“Sounds bout right,” Porthos hummed beneath his breath, still debating. At last, he knew that he could not shield his brothers from this any more than he could give them the stars. “Would you do me a service, madame? Would you call Athos in here, please?”

Madame Clara smiled sadly. “Of course,” suddenly she flung her arms around his shoulders and tugged him tight against her bosom. Porthos stiffened at first, surprised, before the tenderness of her grip wriggled into his heart. He buried his face against her neck, inhaled the deep scent of apples, hard work and baby spit-up. “God will be with you, Porthos. I know He will,” she whispered against his ear.

He blinked back tears. “Thank you. For everythin’” she lightly pulled away, passing a hand just below his chin. Her eyes twinkled with motherly fondness. Porthos swallowed past a lump in his throat as he watched her walk away. He waited in the barn, swiping away some stray tears.

Athos entered a few minutes later, patting grass shards from his shirt and pants. He was, uncharacteristically, still chuckling. It didn’t matter what he was laughing at, the sight was so rare that Porthos nearly cried again. “Porthos?” Athos asked. He looked up, and the joy in his expression vanished instantly. “What is it?”

Porthos brought out the accursed letter. “A correspondence from Paris. Constance wrote it.”

Athos didn’t move. He locked down instead, a minute shifting of muscles in his face and chest. “Have you looked at it?”

“Not yet,” Athos marched over to him. Porthos handed him the correspondence as if it were aflame. Athos slumped into a nearby chair. They ignored the way its creak sounded like a mother’s scream. Athos opened the letter carefully, eyes already skimming the words before he’d even finished unwrapping it.

Porthos counted to a hundred before opening his mouth. “What’s it say, Athos?”

“Constance returned to Paris for a day to grab something for the Dauphin from the Louvre…. Treveille is dying. He has an estimated three days to live,” Athos let the paper flutter out of his fingers. When he tilted his head up, his dark eyes were glittering with something bordering on rage. “She wrote this three days ago.”

Porthos’s breath left in a pained exhale. If Treveille had already succumbed, then Paris must have been in dire straits indeed. Which then meant that… “Flea?”

Athos shook his head, once. “I’m sorry Porthos,” Porthos ducked his head as a rush of tears threatened to spill over his cheeks. He dug his palms into the burning orbs to dry them before they fell. “Go find the other two, will you?” He asked. Had an outsider heard him, they would have assumed he was indifferent or bored by the news. Porthos had, once.

He’d been infuriated by Athos’s lack of outward emotion, figuring his apathy came from his former high-classed lifestyle. Now he knew better. He knew that Athos’s past had not encouraged or allowed any breaks in a man’s resolve or moments of strong emotion. A statesman was supposed to be above such mortal things. Athos, unable to banish his depth of feeling, relied on presence to hide his true nature. Whenever he looked the most undisturbed was when he was truly shaken.

Porthos wished he had some words of comfort, but grief sat heavy in his chest as it was. With a nod, he slowly stood and made his way back to the big house. He passed by Clara whispering in the kitchen with her sisters, ignored the somber and sympathetic glances they cast him. He walked, numb as a ghost, to the study, where he found Aramis, Mathiez and Josue sipping wine and discussing geography.

“I always wondered why we were still fighting over the land of Montague, seems like a lost cause to me…” Josue contemplated. Aramis nodded sagely.

“I agree, though the advantages of such fertile land cannot be disputed…” Porthos appeared in the doorway. His chest clenched as he watched Aramis taper off. “Ah, Porthos! How…” Suddenly, Aramis scowled. “What has happened?”

That was a good question. Porthos wished he had an answer that did not sound more like a wake. He jerked his head out the door. “Come with me.”

Aramis was on his feet the next second. “Gentlemen, excuse me a moment,” he tossed over his shoulder. Porthos nabbed his arm -needing some reassurance, some sign that Aramis, at least, lived – and tugged him into the hall.

“Is it Paris?” Aramis whispered as he reached out with a steady hand to grip the side of Porthos’s neck.

Now was not the moment to mince words. Porthos laid a hand atop the one over his pulse. “Treveille is dead. So is Flea.”

Aramis’s eyes widened. With a slow exhale, he carefully dragged Porthos forward as if he were made of glass or wrapped in jewels. His arms were wiry, barely more than thin rope to Porthos, but he sank readily into the embrace. “Ah, _mon ami_ … I am sorry.”

“She didn’t deserve to die, Aramis,” Porthos choked into his brother’s shoulder, fingers spasming in his shirt. “Of all the people… She was a true Queen.”

“God will preserve her soul now, Porthos. She is in a place without poverty or squalor.”

Porthos patted his back. Aramis released him. “Hope so. There’s more, but Athos won’t say what it is until we’re all together,” Porthos sniffed. Aramis nodded soberly and patted his chest.

“Go get something to drink. I’ve got D’Artagnan. I’ll meet you back in the barn.”

* * *

“Athos?” D’Artagnan called. He and Aramis cautiously walked into the barn, closed the massive doors behind them. The room shuttered into dimness as the bright summer light was snuffed out. Porthos jerked his head up to the loft, where Athos stood in the middle of a sunbeam, folding their blankets and stuffing supplies into a bag. Despite the fact that he was in clear sight of them all, he may as well have been a shadow.

Their leader did not look up. “We’re going to Paris,” he reported, calmly.

Porthos finished pouring himself a second cup of Chardonnay, added a cup for Aramis, who took a seat across from him at the small table with a sigh. “When?”

“In the morning. We will begin rebuilding what has been lost. We’ll need to call everyone back from their posts,” Athos paused in his movements, thoughtful. “According to Constance, the disease has run most of its course, only in that the dead number… In the thousands.”

“Is she safe? She’s not staying there, is she?” D’Artagnan demanded, voice tense with worry. Athos shook his head.

“No. She arrived briefly to aid some of the remaining doctors, but… No. She’s safe.”

“The King?”

“There is a note in there from The Cardinal,” D’Artagnan scooped it up, reading even as Athos reported the details. Aramis downed his first cup of alcohol. Porthos poured them another. “The King will remain in Marseille until The Dauphin’s sickness has passed.”

“The Dauphin is…?” D’Artagnan’s voice choked away. He glanced at Aramis.

Porthos was doing everything in his power not to look at his brother. In the periphery of his vision, he noticed the cup in Aramis’s hands began to rattle, trembling in time with his fingers. But like Athos, his voice was surprisingly steady. “Let’s start packing,” he breathed. Porthos wasn’t going to stand for at least another hour. He swallowed another sip of scalding, bitter wine.

“You’ll need a lieutenant,” he informed Athos gruffly.

“He’ll need a small _brigade_ of lieutenants,” Aramis argued, sotto voce. Porthos nudged him under the table with his foot. 

“I don’t want to talk about this right now!” Athos yelled, as he had ten minutes earlier when Porthos brought it up. He caught D’Artagnan’s eye, helpless and frustrated.

“Athos,” D’Artagnan began, in his best diplomatic tone. “You know what state Paris is going to be in when we return, not to mention the Garrison. Making these decisions now, while we’re free to strategize, is the wisest course.”

“Don’t worry bout hurtin’ our feelings, ‘Thos,” Porthos assured him, half because he didn’t want Athos to worry about such trivial things and half because he didn’t believe he had anymore feelings to _hurt_. “This isn’t about us, it’s about the future of The Musketeers.”

“For obvious reasons, I don’t think I should be it,” Aramis announced, not without guilt.

Athos began a slow descent down the ladder, walking as if he were asleep, or maybe trying to skip underwater. “You’re the most experienced soldier in the Garrison,” he replied logically.

“He ain’t goin near The Louvre,” Porthos stated, with such finality that even Aramis dared not argue this time. “He can’t.”

Aramis dipped his head. “I’m sorry Athos,” he murmured. D’Artagnan slapped the sides of his legs, helpless energy radiating from him. He started collecting their swords and knives and other, smaller weapons they’d left lying about while polishing them.

Athos brushed past them without meeting anyone’s gaze. “Like I said, I’m not going to talk about this right now.”

 _Hate it when he gets into his moods,_ Porthos thought. He rolled his eyes and turned back to the issue at hand. D’Artagnan handed him his scabbard and sword and took the third seat. “I can call in favors from some old soldiers I know,” Aramis offered. “See if they are available to help us rebuild.”

When they glanced at him, he shrugged. “Don’t look at me. Everyone I knew is dead.” Flea. Charon. The Court. Porthos didn’t have enough fingers to count the faces he’d never see again. His stomach roiled. He was no stranger to loss, to _death_. He was a soldier. Yet this…

“You’ve still got us,” D’Artagnan reminded him, gentler than Porthos deserved.

“And how long will that last?” They all swiveled in their seats. Athos had pulled a flask from some hidden recess of his dress. He stood in the middle of the room, shirt unbuttoned, chugging the alcohol as if his life depended on it.

“Athos?”

He shook his head. “Nothing,” he sneered. “I’ll get the horses prepared…”

D’Artagnan and Aramis stood, but it was Porthos who made it across the room in time to tug Athos back. “Not yet,” he growled, when the smaller man tried to shake him off. “It isn’t like you to let your emotions cloud your judgement. What’s troubling ya, besides the obvious?”

Athos glared up at him. Porthos saw bumps raise along his collarbone and arms, a thunderstorm bubbling beneath the skin. “Treveille should not have given me Captaincy. I don’t want it!” He snapped.

Ah. This again. Porthos released Athos, slowly, keeping a close eye in case he bolted again. When no such mutiny seemed forthcoming, he jammed his hands into his pockets. “Figure that’s why he gave it to ya, mate,” Porthos pointed out.

“Me?” Athos held up the flask. “A drunkard and a disgraced noble? What was he _thinking_?”

“No one knows about Pińon other than us,” Aramis soothed. “As for the drinking, like I told you, you’ve never let it affect your duties dangerously. No one expects that to change.”

D’Artagnan inched closer to them until he was standing beside Porthos, wide, puppy-dog eyes in full effect. “Everyone is _ready_ to follow you, Athos. You were _our_ first pick, not just Treveille’s,” he said.

His sincerity only fueled Athos’s fury. “Then you’re all damn fools!”

“Athos, you’re going to be a great leader…”

“That’s what I’m afraid of!” He shouted, flinging the flask into a dark corner. It bounced against a wall, leaking blood-red wine.

“Alrigh, enough of this,” Porthos groaned. Feeling weary in every bone, he nabbed Athos and D’Artagnan by the arm and marched them to the table. He forced Athos into his former chair, none too gently. D’Artganna flung himself at the former Noble’s feet tiredly and Aramis took up residence over Porthos’s right shoulder, arms crossed. “Athos, you’re not the only one strugglin’ here. We’re tired, we’re hurtin. You’re gonna have to spell it out for us.”

“A great leader puts the mission, puts duty, before anything and everything. The wishes of the crown before any personal qualm,” Athos ground out between clenched teeth. He glared at his boots as if they were the center of all his woes.

“Yes,” D’Artagnan threw his hands up. “You’ll do splendidly.”

“The last time I put duty above my heart, I hung my own wife.”

Porthos’s breath left him in a long whoosh. Realization slapped him in the face, hard as a boulder. “Athos…”

“I can no longer accompany you into battle or missions…”

“I know we’ve not always given you cause to believe it, but we _can_ take care of ourselves just fine,” Aramis quipped.

“What if I am commanded to send you into another Savoy?” Athos challenged, meeting Aramis’s eyes. At the hated name, Aramis flinched back. Athos turned to D’Artagnan. “What if I am forced into a situation in which I must choose between _your_ life and the Crown’s whim?” He jabbed an accusing finger at Porthos’s chest. “What if I command you to stand aside and watch as the King inevitably tries to level the Court? Don’t you see?! I am terrified that I will be a _great_ leader, and that in doing so,” his shoulders slumped. “I will lose you.”

For a moment, they sat in the dark of paradise, silent. Porthos searched for words of comfort, but he had lived too long and seen too much the pettiness and indifference of the Crown. “Wish I could say that’ll never happen, but… It’s true,” he murmured, looking away. Would that be the end of their friendship? Would Athos inadvertently split them apart to protect the whole?

Would they die on his command?

Athos bowed his head. His fingers clenched and unclenched tufts of hair. He sounded as if he had been screaming. “For six years, my priority, my _dearest_ mission has been to protect you three at all costs. Becoming Captain will change that. I will choose the Crown, and it will break my heart,” he choked out.

D’Artagnan set a hand on his knee. “Athos, should these things happen…” he smiled when Athos looked up with a fearful tilt to his mouth. “Then I forgive you. _We_ forgive you. Do you hear me? You are forgiven. You are forgiven. You are forgiven ten times over, forgiven.”

“I don’t want your forgiveness. I want you by my side.”

Aramis rounded Porthos to squeeze Athos’s shoulder. “We desire nothing more than to see you continue your life in honor and decency, to find peace and self-content,” he waggled his eyebrows teasingly. “Maybe a woman or two. Children. Because there is _no one_ in our eyes who deserves such good fortune more than you.”

Porthos leaned down, tilted Athos’s chin so the stubborn idiot could watch the truth of his next words in Porthos’s face. “You can’t forget," He ordered. “That this here - _us_ \- we don’t have blind faith. We put our lives in your hands with _full_ knowledge of what it means. No regrets. No hesitation. It is and will always be our great honor to serve at your side. No matter where that leads.”

Athos blinked rapidly, eyes shining. Aramis chuckled softly, with deep regret, or perhaps peaceful resignation. “We’re soldiers, Athos,” he breathed. “What’s more, we’re your _brothers_. Our place is by your side, and we shall not forget nor forsake you. Even if you must do so to us.”

Athos covered his face, shook his head despairingly. “No. No, it is too much. You think I am strong, but I am not. I am not!” He cried.

 _You are,_ Porthos thought. _That’s the problem._

Strength was Athos’s greatest gift, and burden. It was why he was so important to them, also why he knew so much pain. “I know your fear, Athos,” Aramis assured him, rubbing his back. He stared at something past them, into the past. “I have felt it. I have suffered from it. There is no comfort but this: all for one?”

He offered his hand.

Athos stared.

Porthos and D’Artagnan laid theirs atop. Then they looked to their leader. Athos snorted. “Yes,” he agreed. His hand was shaking when he placed it over theirs. “And one for all.”


	14. The Crucible Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Musketeers prepare to leave their temporary homestead. They may leave one brother short.

If Josue Baptiste-Jean was a gracious host, he was a somber send-off. It was as if his own sons were being sent back to war. The day before their departure, the brothers were careful to try and repay the family for all their kindnesses. D’Artagnan went about fixing little odds and ends around the house and orchard. Porthos lugged barrows of apples to and from the fields. Aramis saw to the scrapes, bruises, and general health of the occupants. Athos helped pickle food for the market.

But they were quickly caught, and Josue would have none of it.

“There is no service you could perform that would outdo the pleasure of your company,” he insisted. Madame Clara had added her vehement agreement and suddenly Athos found himself swept beneath a tree with Diana and Alanna. D’Artagnan, Prewitt and Alfonse practiced swordplay nearby.

Aramis had been whisked away by a small army of children and yapping dogs, and Porthos had been invited to the market with Madame Clara and Josue. It could have been just one more day in paradise.

If Athos were a less-disciplined man, he would suggest abandoning their post to remain here. He and his brothers could spend the rest of their existence in the barn, far from danger and conspiracies and secrets. _This_ bright and warm life could be their every-day. Yet it was not to be, so there was a somber overtone to the brightness of the summer day. Disappointment sank in his gut at every new concept Diana explored, her face brightening and shifting. 

He promised to write her when he could.

At some point, Athos must have drifted off to sleep. He woke when a leaf from the tree above floated down to tickle his nose. His eyes fluttered open. There was a warm and heavy weight against his left side. He glanced down to see Diana fast asleep on his shoulder, her mouth lolling open and the book settled face-down in her lap.

Athos glanced around. Alanna had gone. D’Artagnan and his fellow swordsmen were nowhere to be found. Only a small, black, and white speckled dog remained behind, fast asleep near Athos’s feet and snoring loud enough to wake the dead. When he’d fallen asleep, the sun had sat plump and unnerving just above the eaves. Now, the long, dark shadows dancing along the ground foretold of a day at its end.

Athos sighed and slowly moved out from under Diana, shifting so that he gently lowered her head against the tree. He stroked a strand of hair from a young and soft face before standing. He nudged the dog with a foot as he passed it. “Look after her,” he ordered when the animal groaned, starling upright to glare at him with surprisingly human eye. The dog grunted and laid back down, but it did keep a firm eye on the sleeping girl.

Athos made his way back into the house via the kitchen. D’Artagnan was already there, helping knead dough. “Ah, you awake then?” He asked when he noticed Athos.

“Where’s Diana?” Madame Clara inquired, the muscles of her arms bulging with each new tug and push against the dough.

Athos ran a hand through his hair, tugged loose a couple stray leaves and wood pieces. He’d never grown up in such naturalistic settings. He’d been chained to the house of his youth, pampered and prodded. His only interaction with the outside world had been when he played with the dogs or attended horse riding lessons. He found the life suited him. “Still asleep,” he reported.

Clara chuckled. “I think your fancy talk wore her out with joy,” she teased. Athos couldn’t help the quirk of his mouth, pleased.

“Will she be able to study in London?”

“I’m working on her father; but seeing you with her has swayed him a bit, I think. If she does go, I’ll have her send word to you,” Clara promised. Athos felt a spurt of pride and excitement that usually only accompanied word of his brothers.

“She will do great things,” he determined, without doubt.

“We’re preparing dinner now. Porthos and I already packed away all our stuff. We’ll be ready to leave first thing tomorrow,” D’Artagnan explained.

“But not without a good meal first,” Clara added firmly. D’Artagnan chuckled.

“Captain’s orders.”

Athos smiled. “Where’s Aramis?”

“Last I saw, he was helping my sister with her garden. It seemed to soothe him.”

Athos cocked his head, exchanged a glance with D’Artagnan. He had expected Aramis to hang on Porthos’s hip until their departure. “I’ll go find him for dinner,” he offered.

He found him sitting by a lake. Athos stopped in the shade of the trees and studied his friend. Aramis often looked pensive. His love of poetry, philosophy and religion meant that he was a deep thinker alongside his emotional nature.

Athos had passed many nights in Aramis’s apartment, both of their faces shrouded in shadow, a cup of delectable wine in hand as they discussed the finer points of Aristotle or St. Augustine. This was a different though. He could see the tension in Aramis’s face, the lines of sadness carved into his brow like grooves in a tree, outlined in stark maroon by the fading sunlight.

He could also see the bag thrown over his shoulder, his sword and main gauche strapped to his hip. Aramis stood, slowly, and exhaled a slow breath as if steeling himself for something. Athos’s stomach clenched.

He stepped out from the trees. “Aramis?” His friend didn’t stir. Athos blinked. Aramis had been a soldier far longer than any of them. Usually, only extreme focus or sickness allowed one of them to sneak up on him. “Aramis!” he snapped, louder now.

Aramis jumped, swiveled around with one hand on the hilt of his sword. His eyes were wide, wild with fright. “Athos? I-I didn’t hear you.”

That was as disturbing as the vacant look in Aramis’s eyes. “Madame Clara is expecting us for dinner,” he informed him, voice pitched low.

Aramis studied him for a moment, as if memorizing the features of his face. “I’ll be right there. Go ahead without me,” he agreed, turning back to the lake. Athos crossed his arms, set his own gaze to the thin line of gold sparkling on the water. It was beautiful.

He did not move. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to get Mariè some more water for her flowers,” Aramis gestured to the bucket by his side. Athos craned his neck, but he’d nearly drowned himself in too many pails of water not to recognize an empty one when he saw it. 

“Ah, and I see the task was too much for you,” Aramis scoffed a light laugh at the jest, but it was half-hearted. “Are you… Thinking of the Dauphin?” Athos asked, at last. Aramis gave a half-shrug.

“I’m trying my hardest not to,” Silence fell over them. Athos shifted in place, wondering if it would be better if he left Aramis alone with his thoughts. He obviously was not up for talking. Which was odd. Usually, it was an uphill struggle just to get him to _stop_ talking.

“Why do you have your bag?” He finally blurted when the silence was too much. He’d thought they were past this… Tension between them.

“I…” Aramis hesitated, looked down at his bag as if he had forgotten it was there. He dropped it with a dull thump. Then ploughed on. “I just had a memory, staring at this water. Of my mother,” Athos cocked his head.

He lowered himself to sit on the log. He watched his brother intently, wondering where this was going. “You never speak of her,” he pointed out, softly. Aramis gave a half shrug.

“Last I saw her, I was naught but twelve years old. She sent me away.”

“Why?”

“For a better life, presumably,” Aramis’s shoulders twitched in what could have been a shrug but appeared more like a shudder. Slowly, he lowered himself to sit on the log beside Athos.

“I… I was raised in a brothel up until that point. She worked there. At the age of thirteen, everyone, regardless of age or sex had to start making their way via the bed. My mother wrote to my father, desperate, and asked him to take me under his care. She sent me away, with nothing but this scarf,” he fingered the blue cloth around his waist. “The letter and a few days’ worth of bread and water. I never saw her again.”

Athos blinked, aghast. It was not as if he had any right to judge another man on his past. That was why they had never had this discussion before. Athos feared prying too much into Aramis’s old life would be invitation for the man to pry into his own. Perhaps now, on the eve of their new hell, was not the time to get to know each other better. Or perhaps this was the perfect time.

“How far did you have to travel?” He whispered.

“Twelve miles. It snowed,” Aramis shuddered, and Athos felt his chest clench painfully. The image of his friend, a mere child, trudging alone and cold through miles of snow to an unfamiliar place set his teeth on edge.

Yet what could one do when the home behind them was worse? Athos knew that loneliness intimately. “My father is a wine merchant, as you know,” Athos nodded. They had all received some of the grape brandy that Aramis’s father had made, either as it was sold in Paris or whenever Aramis would receive a random shipment from the countryside.

“Well, he needed an heir,” Aramis continued tonelessly. “My stepmother is a good woman, but she married my father with three daughters and could not get pregnant again. He was overjoyed to accept me. Imagine his humiliation when I came to him and much preferred to run barefoot in the grape vineyards than meet with his merchant contacts.”

Athos smiled. “Politics have never been your passion.”

Aramis snorted in agreement. “The only thing I like about court is the fashion, and that only scarcely,” he leaned forward, tapped a finger against his cheek agitatedly. He seemed to be glaring at a rustle in the bushes, as if expecting someone unsavory to appear and challenge him to a duel.

A rabbit hopped from behind the bush and Aramis glared at that too. “He was a harsh man, constantly unhappy with me. My stepmother is kind. I’d not be here without her but when I thought I would marry Isabelle…God, it was a _release.”_

Yes, Athos had felt similarly about marrying Anne. Her love was like a salve on the wounds of his childhood. They weren’t so different, he and Aramis. It was just that Isabelle had chosen to leave for Aramis’s sake. He had dictated Anne’s death.

“Finally, I could be free of his dissatisfaction with every aspect of my personality. When she was sent away, I became a soldier just to get out of the house. My father wrote me a letter, telling me he hoped I died in battle, and thus brought some modicum of honor and decency to the family. We haven’t spoken since.”

“Aramis,” Athos breathed, aghast.

Aramis glanced at him, with a small amused smile at his indignance on his behalf. The smile was sad, too. “I have not thought of her often, my mother, but just now I wondered…”

“What?”

A sigh. “I have always wondered why God separated us. But now that I have lived in this harsh world, I know… She was happy to be rid of me. I had three other siblings, and I was the youngest. I was just another mouth for her to feed. She was probably better off without me.”

“Aramis,” Athos scowled when he noticed how his friend’s lips trembled. Aramis was a joyful soul. His smile and lust for life only dropped away in battle or before unnecessary death.

Even in those times, Athos could count on one hand the amount of times he had seen his brother shed tears in the six years they had known one another. Aramis was strong, capable, easily affectionate, and ready to comfort or reassure. To see him on the edge of breaking made ice form in Athos’s soul.

He reached out, laid a hand on his shoulder. “That can’t be true,” he murmured, as sweat broke out along his temple. He had never been good at overt emotion; or comforting. That was Porthos’s forte, but he had a feeling that leaving now to find their third would only hurt Aramis worse. “Aramis, brother, what’s truly bothering you? You’re never like this.”

Aramis scrunched his neck and Athos cursed himself for embarrassing his friend. He was so bad at this. “Athos, I have to leave.”

Of course. Despite all the light of these past few days, this place must have reminded Aramis of where he came from, the childhood he’d despised. “We’re leaving in the morning,” Athos assured him.

Aramis plunged to his feet, stuffed his thumbs into the sash around his waist. “No, brother,” he said, gazing at Athos with eyes which begged for forgiveness, and raged at unfairness. “Leave The Musketeers. _Alone_.”


	15. The Crucible Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos and Porthos have a sit-down talk with their idiot brother.

Athos felt as if he had just been socked in the gut. He hadn’t been so surprised by anything since learning that Anne had survived her execution.

Aramis was still speaking, holding out his palms in a mute entreaty. “I cannot go back to Paris with you. I must make my way on my own now. It’s the best thing for everyone,” he pleaded.

Athos remained silent, struck dumb and mute. How had he missed this? Aramis’s uncharacteristic silence. His moodiness. After six years together, one would think Athos would know his brother at least a little better than that by now.

Aramis abruptly fell silent, staring at Athos with eyes of glass, reflecting his own guilt and powerlessness back at him. Deducing that there was nothing more to say or do, Aramis made as if to grab his discarded bag.

Athos snapped back to the present. “Aramis, do _not_ move,” he cried. “That’s an _order.”_

“Damn it, Athos!” The other man growled, tearfully. “You said it yourself. I need to learn self-sacrifice. I shall miss you all, _dearly_ , but I won’t bring you and the rest of the regiment down with me!” Aramis hissed over his shoulder. He reached again for the bag.

Athos was on his feet a second later. He snatched Aramis’s wrist and twisted him around. “You were just going to leave without saying goodbye?” He croaked indignantly.

“I thought it would be better for everyone.”

 _As if we wouldn’t have torn the world apart looking for you._ “You’re being ridiculous,” overly emotional and impulsive as usual. Athos should have seen this coming.

“Am I?” Aramis challenged back. “It’s like you said, Athos, that child can never be mine. The life I yearn after, it is not mine to have. But so long as I am near it, I _will_ pursue it. You know I will. I know I will. Better I leave than you are forced to send me away or go yourselves!”

“If you would only listen…” Athos insisted.

“Treveille is dead, Athos!” Aramis interrupted. He snatched his wrist and backed away like a trapped animal. There was a gaping hole of cold in his place. “I have lost your trust. D’Artagnan and Porthos are full of worry and grief. Paris is in shambles; The Musketeers will be the _only_ thing standing between the King and the Cardinal,” tears twinkled in his eyes. “The last thing any of you need is… Is… A womanizing nuisance! My mother’s life was made better when I left, maybe yours will be too!”

Athos stammered for a response, but his mind was still trying to go through the mental gymnastics to understand what Aramis could _possibly_ be thinking. “You don’t know that!”

“And you do?”

“Yes!” Athos tried to close the gap between them, but Aramis kept stepping away. They were doing some twisted, insane version of a couple’s dance. Athos clenched his jaw. “Aramis, we still need you.”

 _“_ You say that now, but one day…” Aramis’s words tapered off. He turned back toward the lake, calmer now. “When Marsac left me, it broke my heart. I do not have the strength to survive that a second time. I’m going.” Athos felt as if someone had grabbed his heart in a vise-like grip and started to _tug._

“Enough,” Athos spat. He inhaled a sharp breath at the tears rolling down Aramis’s face. Gentled his tone, like he used to do when Thomas would get upset. “Aramis. Forgive me. I have been sorely lacking in my duties as your brother if you honestly believe I could ever live without you by my side. We’re the Insèpèrables, remember?”

Aramis closed his eyes. “M-Marsac and my parents…”

Athos took that opportunity to snag his arm and tug him into a tight embrace. He coiled his fingers into Aramis’s wayward curls. “Could not have possibly loved you as much as I do,” he deduced.

“How can you not know that I have three great honors which I have been gifted in my lifetime? You are one of them and I am wholly undeserving, but I thank God every day,” he thought a moment. “Besides, do you think Porthos or D’Artagnan would ever forgive me if I let you walk away?”

Aramis sniffled. “You are always forgiven, remember?”

“I will never forgive _myself.” For any of it._

A puff of breath against his neck was Aramis sighing. “You will be forced to make impossible decisions in your tenure as captain. Let me lighten your load. Let me decide this for you.”

“Have you assume control?” Athos snorted. He and Aramis pulled away, but Athos did not relinquish him. He didn’t know if he ever could. “Never. I made you a promise, remember?” After Savoy. Athos had sworn that Aramis would never bear the burden of command again if he didn’t wish.

Aramis remembered. He smiled again, as he had then, with gratitude. “Maybe it’s time for you to think of yourself, Athos. You can’t deny that I do seem to come with a great deal of trouble.”

Athos wasn’t sure why Aramis thought he was such a selfless person in the first place. He was constantly thinking of himself, his feelings, his shame, his disappointments. All he did was think of himself. Even now, he knew that keeping Aramis at his side was as much about his own sense of peace as it was The Musketeers. He _needed_ to feel needed.

But how to make Aramis, independent as he was, understand this?

Athos splayed his fingers across Aramis’s face, steadied their gazes. “If someone came to me and said that I could have a stress-free and untroubled existence if only I sacrificed your life, I would stab them through the eye for their blasphemy. If they insisted, I would drop to my knees and beg for your safe return. No matter the amount of time I spent languishing in troubles. You are my brother, Aramis, having you is my honor and privilege.”

Aramis’s lips puckered again. He looked away.

“I…I…”

 _Blessedly,_ they were interrupted. “Eh! Aren’t you two ever coming to…” Porthos halted mid-demand. For someone so broad-shouldered, he could slip through the forest light as a doe.

Athos had never been gladder to see anyone in his life.

Porthos’s brows thundered as he noticed their expressions. “What’s goin on here?” He asked suspiciously.

Maybe Aramis could have handled Athos, but there was no reckoning with Porthos. A tear dribbled down Aramis’s cheek. “Porthos, I…” He stammered.

Porthos’s expression twisted, as if Aramis’s distress were a bullet to the heart. He surged forward. “Mis? Aramis, what’s wrong? Are you hurt?” When the Marksman tried to scramble away, held in place only by Athos’s unrelenting grip, Porthos stopped. Swiveled to glare at Athos. “Athos, what’re you doin to ‘im?”

He blinked, taken aback by the anger in Porthos’s eyes as well as the accusation. Did they think him capable of hurting either of them? He dipped his head.

“Our dear brother,” he spoke up. “Is suffering from a delusion that he is a burden to us and one day we will hate him for it.”

“What?!” Now Porthos whirled back around to stare at Aramis. “Whatever made you think that?” Aramis just dashed an arm over his eyes, chest hitching. Porthos’s face crumpled.

“Ah, ‘Mis, don’t you do that. I can’t ever bear to see you upset,” his large arms dwarfed Aramis in them, but Athos knew personally what it was to be engulfed by such safety and caring. He relaxed a bit, watching as Aramis seemed to vanish into the embrace.

“He was going to leave,” Athos continued, horrified even to speak the words.

Porthos spluttered. “What the _hell_?” His grip tightened. He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Is it your promise? If I’d a known it weighed on you like this, I would have hugged you sooner,” he ventured cautiously.

Aramis exhaled a shuddering breath, so Athos took this as an affirmative. He recalled their heated, whispered conversation earlier that week.

_“I handled it.”_

_“What did you do?”_

_“ **Handled** it.”_

Athos had been so preoccupied defending himself he’d forgotten about Porthos’s undisclosed method for _handling it_. “I think the better question here is what have _you_ done?” He wondered, arching an eyebrow at the big man.

Porthos glared at him for a solid minute before he withered. “I made Aramis promise not to step foot in the Louvre again, to keep all our heads on our shoulders,” Aramis let out a hoarse sob. Porthos laid a cheek against his hair. “I know, I know. I’m sorry, ‘Mis,” he murmured.

Athos rolled his eyes. He was surrounded by emotional fools. “You realize he’s a Musketeer, yes?” he mocked. “Half of our _lives_ are in The Louvre.”

“You wanna watch him hang, Athos? Cause I don’t!” Porthos retorted.

“I m-may as well just g-g-go,” Aramis stammered, glancing between them. “Before I get anyone k-killed or you’re forced to send me away.”

“Like hell you will,” Porthos growled. Athos reached out but Porthos had a vice-like grip on Aramis already. He caressed a stray lock of black hair from his face, tenderly. “Stop it now. I’d rather take the noose over losin ya. And what’s this about being sent away?” Porthos’s face darkened. He shook him lightly. “Hey. I’m not Marsac. You believe that, don’t you?”

“For how long?” Aramis asked miserably. “How long until I drive you away too?”

“You’re such an idiot, Aramis,” Porthos scoffed. “But I’ll humor ya. Athos, how long is eternity again? I never remember.”

Athos smirked. “Only a tenth of the time that it would take for him to drive us away,” he answered.

“And how could we leave, huh? Who would give me unsolicited advice on flirting?”

Athos pretended to mull this over, as if searching his memory for _anyone_ else who dared give him flirting advice, before shaking his head. “There are no other masters of such an esoteric artform, Porthos.”

“Obviously. I mean, I can even sometimes understand where the women are comin from,” Porthos squeezed Aramis’s upper arm. “Look at these biceps, huh?”

“I know what you’re doing,” Aramis grumbled, trying to tug free. It only inspired them further.

“Have you noticed his shooting prowess?” Athos continued.

“How about how kind ‘e is, how gentle he works when healin?” Porthos patted his upper thigh, where a prominent scar remained from such an occasion when Aramis’s healing had saved him. Athos’s own scars gave an answering throb at the reminder.

“Never met a more honorable or kinder man in my life,” he agreed, hoping Aramis could hear the sincerity in his voice. If his maroon cheeks were any indication, he heard them loud and clear.

“Forgiving, too.”

“Neither of you has met anyone kinder because you don’t have that many friends,” Aramis pointed out dryly. They ignored him.

“I would miss his cheek, too, but don’t tell ‘im I said so,” Porthos mock whispered.

“There’d be no one to flirt us into brothels or barricades. We’d not finish half our missions….” Athos contemplated. “And what if he tries to make friends elsewhere?”

Porthos gasped histrionically. Shook Aramis’s arm roughly. “I’m too jealous for all that. You hear me?” He demanded.

“Let me go!” Aramis yanked free and stumbled away from them into a nearby tree as if someone had just punched him, blushing bright enough to rival the sun. Porthos crossed his arms, chuckling.

“You never could take a compliment from either of us,” Athos observed, smiling himself. Aramis smoothed his hair down and away from his face indignantly. He exhaled a slow, recomposing breath.

“We’re just trying to protect ya, Aramis,” Porthos explained.

“Albeit with some unconventional means,” Athos allowed with a side glare at the other man.

“So I am doing the same for you,” he blinked rapidly. “You really want me to stay?”

Athos had never met a man harder of hearing or so thick-headed. “Must we beg?” He drawled. He would do it if asked, but very reluctantly.

“I’d prefer you didn’t.”

“ _What_ is the hold-up?!” D’Artagnan tramped through the brush, cursing. He stood before them, hands on his hips, spluttering as a few leaves clung to his lips and cheeks. “Are you three planning _sedition_ out here!? Dinner is ready and everyone is waiting!”

“I can’t avoid The Louvre,” Aramis stated, watching Porthos’s face for a reaction. Porthos groaned.

“Why would you do that?” D’Artagnan asked, surprised.

“We can’t have you sniffin round the Queen’s skirts, either!” Porthos argued, throwing up his hands in exasperation. 

“Its not as if we’re always in Paris,” they each nearly leapt from their skins. D’Artagnan had ventured closer and now finished their small circle. He shrugged when they swiveled to stare at him. “Whatever this is about, its obviously got you three _in a state_. So how about this? The countryside has been ravaged by drought and disease. That’s why there were so many people in Paris,” he jabbed a finger at the marksman.

“Aramis can’t get the disease. He and Porthos can deliver aid and medicines to those places outside of Paris for the Musketeers, thus staunching the flow of refugees,” he nodded to Athos. “I’ll stay with Athos and help rebuild Paris as lieutenant.”

 _Oh,_ Athos thought. Quite stupidly.

“I’ll be damned,” Porthos cursed. “That’s _brilliant_ , D’Art!”

“We’ll still be separated,” Aramis contemplated. “But only for a few weeks at a time. I don’t have to avoid The Louvre while in Paris because I won’t raise suspicion being gone so often.”

“Think you can survive without us, Athos?” Porthos teased.

Athos wasn’t sure, but like Aramis had said, it was only for a few weeks at a time. He’d no doubt they would keep in touch also. He nodded. “I shall prosper much more quickly without you as distractions,” he predicted. “Besides. I have D’Artagnan,” he tugged their youngest into a loose half embrace.

D’Artagnan smiled and shoved him away. “Are we all better now? Can we _eat_ , please?” Athos arched a brow at Aramis. _Can we?_

His brother laughed. “Your brilliance has me famished, duckling,” he announced, slinging his bag over his shoulder, only to then swat at D’Artagnan’s leg lightly. “I’ll race you.”

“Too late!” D’Artagnan shoved him back and took off into the trees. “I’ve already won!”

“Last one to the table doesn’t get any cake!” Aramis added as he rocketed after him. Athos slapped his forehead. Porthos rolled his eyes and patted his shoulder.

“It’s alright, ‘Thos. You need to watch that sugar tooth of yours anyway.”

“ _Excuse me?”_

“Every man for himself!” Porthos was already sprinting away, laughing as if he had just made a grand joke. Athos waited ten seconds, in the interest of fairness.

Then he was on his way.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not finished with this yet so updates are going to be sporadic, but an end will come... Sooner or later.


End file.
